j»c^-      tmvm&     .isa* 

SL 

fffl^V^ll^ 

~^,r 


MEN^AKD-MMNEKS 

OF-THE 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIfOtMtt 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE  CHAUTAUQUA   LITERARY  AND 
SCIENTIFIC  CIRCLE. 

Jfount>eJ>  in  1S7S. 

This  volume  is  apart  of  the  course  of  home  reading  the 
essential  features  of  which  are: 

1.  A  Definite  Course  covering  four  years,  and  including 

History,  Literature,  Art,  Science,  etc.     (A  reader  may 
enroll  for  only  one  year.)    No  examinations. 

2.  Specified  Volumes  approved  by  the  counselors.    Many  of 

the  books  are  specially  prepared  for  the  purpose. 

3.  Allotment  of  Time.     The  reading  is  apportioned  by  the 

week  and  month. 

4.  A  Monthly  Magazine,  THE  CHAUTAUQUAN,  ivith  ad- 

ditional readings,  notes,  and  general  literature. 

5.  A  Membership  Book,  containing  suggestions  on  reading, 

review  outlines,  and  other  aid. 

6.  Individual  Readers,  no  matter  how  isolated,  may  have  all 

the  privileges. 

7.  Local  Circles  may  be  formed  by  three  or  -more  members 

for  mutual  aid  and  encouragement. 

8.  The  Time  Required  is  no  more  than  the  average  person 

gives  to  unconnected,  desultory  reading. 

9.  Certificates  are  granted  at  the  end  of  four  years  to  all 

who  complete  the  course. 

10.  Advanced  Courses,  for  continued  reading  in  special  lines 

—History,  Literature,  etc. 

11.  Pedagogical  Course  for  secular  teachers. 

12.  Young  People's  Reading  Course,  to  stimulate  the  reading 

of  good  literature  by  the  young. 

For  all  information  concerning  the  C.  L.  S.  C.  address 
The  Chautauqua  Office, 

Buffalo,  N.  Y. 

THE  REQUIRED  LITERATURE  FOR  1898-99. 

TWENTY  CENTURIES  OF  ENGLISH  HISTORY  (illus- 
trated). By  James  Richard  Joy  -  -  -  81.00 

EUROPE  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  (illus- 
trated). By  H.  P.  Judson,  Professor  of  Political 
Science,  The  University  of  Chicago  -  1.00 

FROM  CHAUCER  TO  TENNYSON  (with  portraits).  By 
Henry  A.  Beers,  Professor  of  English  Literature, 
Yale  University  -------  1.00 

MKN  AND  MANNERS  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CEN- 
TURY. By  Miss  Susan  Hale  -  1.00 

WALKS  AND  TALKS  IN  THE  GEOLOGICAL  FIELD 
(illustrated).  By  Alexander  Winchell,  late  Pro- 
fessor of  Geology,  University  of  Michigan  -  1.00 

THE  CHAUTAUQUAN,  a  monthly  magazine  (12  num- 
bers, illustrated)  -  -  -  *  -  -  -  -  2.00 


Gbautauqua  "Keating  Circle  literature 


MEN  AND  MANNERS 


OF  THE 


EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 


BY 

SUSAN  HALE 


MEADVILLE  PEXNA 

FLOOD  AND  VINCENT 

Cfoe  (iCbautauqua-Ccntur?  press 

NEW  YORK:  CINCINNATI:  CUICACO: 

150  Fifth  Avenue.       222  W.  Fourlli  St.       57  Washington  St. 

lS9S 


The  required  books  of  the  C.  L.  S.  C.  are  recommended  by  a 
Council  of  six.  It 'must,  however'Ve undersfoocTthat  rec- 
ommendation does  not  involve  an  approval  by  the  Council, 
or  by  any  member  of  it,  of  every  principle  or  doctrine  con- 
tained in  the  book  recommended. 


Copyright,  1898 
By  FLOOD  &  VINCENT 


The   Chautauqua- Century  Press,   Mcadville,   Pa.,    (T.   S.   A. 
Kk-ctrotvped,  Printed,  and  Bound  bv  Flood  &  Vincent 


PREFACE. 

IN  our  country  house  here  there  is  an  old  mahogany 
bookcase  which  dates  from  my  father's  time,  filled  with 
books  for  the  most  part  belonging  to  my  mother,  bear- 
ing dates  of  publication  earlier  than  her  birth,  and  the 
favorites  of  her  youth.  I  inherit  her  taste  for  these  an- 
tiquated volumes,  and  have  myself  added  to  the  col- 
lection from  time  to  time,  so  that  at  present  it  makes  a 
brave  show  of  shabby  gilt  backs,  worn-out  calf  bindings, 
and  foolish  titles,  in  themselves,  in  many  cases,  an  ad- 
vertisement of  dulness.  On  these  shelves  stand  "The 
Infidel  Father,"  "Father  and  Daughter,"  "  March- 
mont,"  "The  Exiles,"  "Julia,"  in  full  view,  while 
others  are  relegated  to  a  position  behind  the  rest ;  by 
contrast  the  long  row  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  novelists,  fifty 
uniform  little  volumes,  charm  the  eye,  my  mother's  own 
copy  of  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  in  nineteen  volumes, 
book-marks  of  green  ribbon  hanging  from  the  volumes — 
for  such  marks  were  needed  by  the  diligent  readers  of 
Richardson's  prolixity — all  of  Miss  Burney's  novels, 
on  the  lower  shelf  an  early  edition  of  Miss  Edgeworth 
and  all  of  Jane  Austen,  in  one  solid  volume  closely 
printed.  The  Spectator  is  there  ;  so  are  Pope,  Cowper, 
and  Goldsmith  ;  "  Rasselas  "  and  "  Robinson  Crusoe," 
likewise,  with  "Select  British  Poets"  collected  by  Wil- 
liam Hazlitt,  called  also  ' '  New  Elegant  Extracts  from 
Chaucer  to  the  Present  Time,"  and  published  in  1824. 

It  is  from  such  a  mine  of  excellence  that  I  have  drawn 
the  material  of  the  present  book.  The  busy  world  of 


iv  Preface. 

to-day  thinks  it  has  no  time  to  examine  for  itself  a 
collection  like  this,  to  choose  the  real  gold  and  reject 
the  dross,  yet  my  wish  is,  in  the  extracts  I  am  giving  of 
my  favorite  authors,  to  induce  readers  to  search  further 
for  themselves. 

The  ruling  passion  of  mankind  has  been  said  to  be 
curiosity.  The  most  respectable  form  of  it,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  curiosity  about  mankind  as  it  is,  an  interest  in 
human  nature,  such  as  Fielding  avowed,  and  almost 
every  one  recognizes  in  himself.  In  some  it  takes  the 
form  of  excavation  and  search  for  relics  of  remote  an- 
tiquity. When  I  was  in  Tunis,  and  visiting  the  site  of 
ancient  Carthage,  of  which  absolutely  nothing  remains, 
and  where  nothing  more  was  to  be  seen  than  a  green 
field  with  goats  browsing  in  it  and  a  glorious  view  of 
the  Mediterranean,  it  was  announced  to  us  that  a  tomb 
had  that  moment  been  opened,  containing  the  skeleton 
of  a  Carthaginian  man.  A  Punic  man,  actually  lying 
there — with  no  other  signs  to  tell  his  story.  Instantly 
the  curiosity  to  know  that  story  became  intense.  The 
passion  for  digging  in  ancient  ruins  is  easily  understood. 

After  the  admirable  invention  of  Cadmus,  it  becomes 
easier  to  learn  about  our  progenitors.  Hieroglyphics 
help,  and  although  libraries  are  burnt,  like  Alexandria 
and  Cordova,  parchments  are  preserved  and  others 
come  to  light.  With  printing  the  matter  grows  simpler, 
for  now  the  events  of  the  world  can  be  recorded  and 
preserved,  if  people  will  but  take  the  trouble  to  write 
them  down.  Research  has  brought  to  light  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  the  early  centuries,  and  now  litera- 
ture begins  to  record  them,  though  at  first  sparingly. 

People  began  to  write  good  prose  and  beautiful 
poetry  in  the  English  language  twelve  centuries  ago, 
and  we  may  tmcl  satisfaction  for  our  curiosity  by 


Preface.  v 

studying  their  works  all  along  these  years.  But  it  is 
only  with  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  and  opening  of  the 
eighteenth  century  that  the  intellectual  stir  of  the  times 
begins  to  assume  a  personal  character  ;  lives,  biogra- 
phies, essays,  from  that  time  abound,  and  letter-writing 
took  its  valuable  place  in  the  literature  of  England.  It 
seems  as  if  everybody  had  discovered  the  fun  of  rushing 
into  print.  Political  pamphlets  preceded  the  news- 
paper editorial  to  which  we  are  now  accustomed.  Fine 
ladies  wrote  ballads  which  were  printed  and  scattered 
about  the  streets.  Squibs,  reviews,  satirical  poems, 
and  letters  filled  the  air.  The  personal  rancors  or 
political  differences  which  inspired  these  flights  have 
long  ago  vanished,  but  we  may  search  such  papers  with 
interest  to  find  traces  of  the  manners  of  the  world  which 
wrote  and  read  them.  This  literature  naturally  cen- 
tered in  London,  reflecting  upon  human  character  and 
human  life  as  seen  in  the  great  city.  It  discussed  all 
the  varieties  of  social  life,  and  painted  London  society 
more  vividly  than  has  been  done  before  or  since. 

It  is  of  London,  therefore,  that  we  learn  more  than 
of  the  country  life  of  England  in  our  study  of  this  litera- 
ture, but  Addison  has  given  us  a  glimpse  of  the  country 
in  his  description  of  Sir  Roger,  and  Fielding  and  Gold- 
smith allow  us  a  whiff  of  country  air.  Yet  even  with 
these,  the  indifference  to  landscape  and  the  enjoyment 
of  nature  are  remarkable.  It  has  been  said  that  the 
subject  of  nature  and  man's  relation  to  it,  that  is  of  the 
visible  landscape,  sea,  and  sky,  were  as  yet  untouched 
up  to  the  age  of  Pope,  and  the  subject  of  man  alone 
treated.  This  is  so  well  and  thoroughly  handled  that 
we  cannot  fail  to  acquire  a  pretty  good  notion  of  what 
man  was  like  in  the  century  before  our  own. 

It  is  this  view  that  has   occupied  me  in  making  the 


vi  Preface. 

selections  for  the  present  book.  In  reading  these  often 
silly  novels  I  am  always  looking  out  for  points  of  differ- 
ence in  language,  manners,  observances,  from  our  own  ; 
things  which  the  writers  set  down  all  unconsciously  as 
matters  of  course,  which  now  seem  to  us  strange,  old- 
fashioned,  perhaps  absurd,  but  interesting,  in  my 
opinion.  We  especially  want  to  know  what  our  great- 
grandmothers  were  like,  and  there  is  abundant  evidence 
to  their  characteristics,  either  in  their  own  real  letters  or 
the  fictitious  ones  written  for  them,  which  were  ac- 
cepted as  good  representatives  of  their  thoughts  and 
actions  by  their  own  approval. 

I  do  not  undertake  to  deal  with  the  study  of  the 
literary  style  of  the  period,  a  work  which  is  always 
forward,  and  in  abler  hands  than  my  own.  Even  such 
lives  as  those  of  the  writers  I  have  quoted  are  to  serve 
only  to  illustrate  the  conditions  of  their  time.  Their 
biographies  have  been  all  charmingly  written  and  their 
works  analyzed  by  our  own  best  writers  in  other  books. 

My  real  object  in  preparing  the  book  is  to  awake,  if 
necessary,  an  interest  in  my  subject,  and  to  stimulate 
my  readers  to  go  further  in  the  study  of  character 
afforded  by  the  literature  of  the  eighteenth  century.  If 
he  once  enters  the  path,  the  charm  of  style,  the  ele- 
gance of  execution,  the  fertility  of  subject  of  great 
writers,  cannot  fail  to  lead  him  farther  and  farther  upon 
such  a  delightful  road. 

SUSAN  HALE. 

April  jo,  jS$8. 


CONTENTS. 

Book  Pag? 

I.  POPE  AND  LADY  MARY 9 

II.  CHARLOTTE  LENNOX 44 

III.  ADDISON  AND  GAY 75 

IV.  RICHARDSON  AND  HARRIET  BYRON    .    .  109 
V.  FIELDING 147 

VI.  GOLDSMITH 180 

VII.  HORACE  WALPOLE  AND  GRAY     ....  203 

VIII.  EVELINA  AND  DR.  JOHNSON 233 

IX.  BEAU  NASH  AND  BATH 271 

X.  MRS.    RADCLIFFE  AND   HER  FOLLO\VERS  292 


C.   L.   S.   C.   MOTTOES. 

WE  STUDY  THE  WORD  AND  THE  WORKS 
OF  GOD. 

LET  us  KEEP  OUR  HEAVENLY  FATHER  IN 

THE  MIDST. 

NEVER  BE  DISCOURAGED. 
LOOK  UP  AND  LIFT  UP. 


MEN   AND   MANNERS  OF  THE   EIGHT- 
EENTH  CENTURY. 

BOOK  I. 
POPE  AND   LADY  MARY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  was  born  in  1690 
and  died  in  1762.  She  was  Lady  Mary  Pierrepont,  the  Birth  and 
daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Kingston,  thus  by  birth  belong-  parentage. 
ing  to  the  best  society  of  her  time.  She  married  Mr. 
Edward  Wortley  Montagu,  a  diplomatist  and,  amongst 
other  things,  a  personal  friend  of  Addison,  and  thus  was 
brought  in  contact  with  the  literary  people.  She  was 
herself  a  brilliant  letter-writer,  and  her  letters  have  been 
published.  These  things  fit  her  especially  for  my  pur- 
pose, as,  during  a  long  life  she  saw  and  was  a  part  of 
that  society  which  we  desire  to  become  acquainted  with,  . 

'     Social  position. 

the  circle  of  wits  and  fashionable  people,  of  brilliant 
writers  and  dull  peers,  of  men  of  genius  who  conde- 
scended to  frivolity  and  women  of  the  world  who  aspired 
to  wisdom.  Her  letters  were  edited  in  1837  by  her 
great-grandson,  Lord  Wharncliffe,  whose  book  is  already 
old-fashioned,  and  for  this  reason  has  a  flavor  more 
suited  to  the  present  purpose  than  later  less  flattering 
though  perhaps  better  considered  estimates  of  Lady 
Mary.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  she  was  celebrated, 
even  from  her  childhood,  for  a  vivacious  intellect,  pre- 
cocious mental  acquirements,  and  for  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  her  person. 


io      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

A  trifling  incident,  which  Lady  Mary  loved  to  recall,  will 
Incident  of  the  prove  how  much  she  was  the  object  of  her  father's  pride  and 
Kit-cat  Club.  fondness  in  her  childhood.  As  a  leader  of  the  fashionable 
world,  and  a  strenuous  Whig  in  party,  he  of  course  belonged 
to  the  Kit-cat  Club.  One  day,  at  a  meeting  to  choose  toasts  for 
the  year,  a  whim  seized  him  to  nominate  her,  then  not  eight 
years  old,  a  candidate,  alleging  that  she  was  far  prettier  than 
any  lady  on  their  list.  The  other  members  demurred,  because 
the  rules  of  the  club  forbade  them  to  elect  a  beauty  whom  they 
had  never  seen.  "Then  you  shall  see  her,"  cried  he  ;  and  in 
the  gaiety  of  the  moment  sent  orders  home  to  have  her  finely 
dressed  and  brought  to  him  at  the  tavern  ;  where  she  was 
received  with  acclamations,  her  claim  unanimously  allowed,  her 
health  drunk  by  every  one  present,  and  her  name  engraved  in 
due  form  upon  a  drinking  glass.  The  company  consisting  of 
some  of  the  most  eminent  men  in  England,  she  went  from  the 
lap  of  one  poet,. or  patriot,  or  statesman,  to  the  arms  of  another, 
was  feasted  with  sweetmeats,  overwhelmed  with  caresses,  and, 
what  perhaps  already  pleased  her  better  than  either,  heard  her 
wit  and  beauty  loudly  extolled  on  every  side.  Never  again,  she 
has  said  later,  did  she  pass  so  happy  a  day. 

However,  it  is  probable  that  her  father,  whose  amuse- 
ment in  her  ceased  when  she  grew  past  the  age  of  sitting 
on  his  knee  and  playing  with  a  doll,  consigned  all  his 
daughters  alike  to  the  care  of  a  good  homespun  governess 
such  as  her  letters  describe,  and,  having  thus  done  his 
supposed  duty  toward  them,  held  himself  at  liberty  to 
pursue  his  own  pleasures,  which  lay  elsewhere  than  at 
home.  Her  mother  died  when  Lady  Mary  was  four 
years  old. 

But,  admitting  that  Lady  Mary's  talents  were  only  self-culti- 
Literary  vated,  her  literary  progress  might  not  be  the  less  considerable. 

When  industry,  inspirited  by  genius,  toils  from  free  choice,  and 
there  exists,  unchecked,  that  large  devouring  appetite  for  read- 
ing seldom  felt  but  in  the  first  freshness  of  intelligent  youth,  it 
will  take  in  more  nourishment,  and  faster,  than  the  most 
assiduous  tuition  can  cram  down.  It  is  true  the  habit  of  idly 
turning  over  an  uncounted  variety  of  books,  forgotten  as  soon 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  i  r 

as  read,  may  be  prejudicial  to  the  mind  ;  but  a  bee  wanders  to 
better  purpose  than  a  butterfly,  although  the  one  will  some- 
times seem  just  to  touch  the  flower-bed  and  flit  away  as  lightly 
as  the  other.  Lady  Mary  read  everything,  but  it  was  without 
forgetting  anything ;  and  the  mass  of  matter,  whencesoever 
collected,  gradually  found  its  own  arrangement  in  her  head. 
She  probably  had  some  assistance  from  Mr.  William  Fielding, 
her  mother's  brother,  a  man  of  parts,  who  perceived  her 
capacity,  corresponded  with  her,  and  encouraged  her  pursuit 
of  information.  And  she  herself  acknowledges  her  obligations 
to  Bishop  Burnet  for  "condescending  to  direct  the  studies  of  a 
girl." 

Nevertheless,  though  laboring  to  acquire  what  maybe  termed 
masculine  knowledge  [this  was  written  in  1836]  and  translating 
under  the  bishop's  eye  the  Latin  version  of  Epictetus,  she  was 
by  no  means  disposed  to  neglect  works  of  fancy  and  fiction,  but 
got  by  heart  all  the  poetry  that  came  in  her  way,  and  indulged 
herself  in  the  luxury  of  reading  every  romance  as  yet  invented. 
For  she  possessed,  and  left  after  her,  the  whole  library  cele-  Old  romances. 
brated  in  Mrs.  Lennox's  "Female  Quixote,"  viz.:  "Cleopatra," 
"Cassandra,"  "Clelia,"  "Cyrus,"  "Pharamond,"  "Ibrahim," 
etc.,  etc.,  all,  like  the  Lady  Arabella's  collection,  "Englished 
mostly  by  persons  of  honor."  The  chief  favorite  appears  to 
have  been  a  translation  of  Monsieur  Honore"  d'Urf^'s  "Astrea," 
once  the  delight  of  Henri  Quatre  [died  1715]  and  his  court,  and 
still  admired  and  quoted  by  the  savants  who  flourished  under 
Louis  XIV.  In  a  blank  page  of  this  massive  volume  (which 
might  have  counterbalanced  a  pig  of  lead  of  the  same  size) 
Lady  Mary  had  written,  in  her  fairest  youthful  hand,  the  names 
and  characteristics  of  the  chief  personages,  thus  :  the  beautiful 
Diana,  the  volatile  Climene,  the  melancholy  Doris,  Celadon 
the  faithful,  Adamas  the  wise,  and  so  on,  forming  two  long 
columns. 

These  ponderous  books,  once  hers,  black  in  outward  hue, 
and  marked  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  almost  a  century,  might 
have  been  disrespectfully  treated  by  her  junior  grandchildren 
and  their  nursery  maids — put  to  any  use  except  reading  them— 
but  for  the  protection  of  an  excellent  person,  who  when  young 
had  been  Lady  Bute's  own  attendant  before  her  marriage  [the 
only  daughter  of  Lady  Mary  became  Lady  Bute],  and  ever  after 
made  part  of  her  family.  Her  spectacles  were  always  to  be 


12       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

found  in  "Clelia  "  or  "Cassandra,"  which  she  studied  unceas- 

"  Clelia"  and       ingly,  prizing  them  next  to  the  Bible  and  Tillotson's  sermons  ; 

'Cassandra."      because,  to  give  her  own  words,  "they  were  all  about  good  and 

virtuous  people,  not  like  the  wicked  trash  she  now  saw  young 

folks  get  from  circulating  libraries."     To  her  latest  hour  she 

used  to  repent  having  lost  sight  of  another  romance,  beautiful 

beyond  them   all — the  "History  of   Hiempsal,   King  of  Nu- 

midia."     This,  she  said,  she  he'd  read  only  once,  and  by  no 

pains  or  search  could  ever  meet  with  or  hear  of  again. 

The  modern  world  will  smile,  but  should,  however,  beware 
of  too  hastily  despising,  works  that  charmed  Lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  in  her  youth,  and  were  courageously  defended  by  Madame 
de  SeVigne",  even  when  hers  was  past,  and  they  began  to  be  slid- 
ing out  of  fashion.  She,  it  seems,  thought,  with  the  old  woman 
just  now  mentioned,  that  they  had  a  tendency  to  elevate  the 
mind,  and  to  instill  honorable  and  generous  sentiments.  At 
any  rate  they  must  have  fostered  application  and  perseverance 
by  accustoming  their  readers  to  what  the  French  term  ouvrages 
de  longue  haleine. 

These  ancient  heavy  tomes  are  almost  inaccessible 
now,  and -only  to  be  found  in  the  darkest  places  of  a  few 
long-suffering  libraries.  When  found  they  are  soon 
relegated  to  their  shelves,  for  modern  application  and 
perseverance  are  quite  incapable  of  wading  through  their 
long,  involuted  sentences. 

Some  particulars,  in  themselves  too  insignificant  to  be  worth 

Customs  of  the  ,.  11, 

table.  recording,  are  valuable  as  recording  the  manners  of  our  ances- 

tors. Lady  Mary's  father,  who  became  Lord  Dorchester,  by 
the  time  she  had  strength  for  the  office,  imposed  upon  his 
eldest  daughter  the  task  of  doing  the  honors  of  his  table  at 
Thoresby,  which  in  those  days  required  no  small  share.  For 
the  mistress  of  a  country  mansion  was  not  only  to  invite— that 
is  urge  and  tease— her  company  to  eat  more  than  human 
throats  could  conveniently  swallow,  but  to  carve  every  dish, 
when  chosen,  with  her  o\vn  hands.  The  greater  the  lady,  the 
more  indispensable  the  duty.  Each  joint  was  carried  up  in  its 
turn  to  be  operated  on  by  her,  and  her  alone,  since  the  peers 
and  knights  on  either  hand  were  so  far  from  being  bound  to 
offer  their  assistance  that  the  very  master  of  the  house,  posted 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  \  3 

opposite  to  her,  might  not  act  as  her  croupier ;  his  department 
was  to  push  the  bottle  after  dinner.  As  for  the  crowd  of  guests, 
the  most  inconsiderable  among  these,  the  curate,  or  subaltern, 
or  squire's  younger  brother,  if  suffered  through  her  neglect 
to  help  himself  to  a  slice  of  the  mutton  placed  before  him, 
would  have  chewed  it  in  bitterness,  and  gone  home  an 
affronted  man,  half  inclined  to  give  a  wrong  vote  at  the  next 
election.  There  were  then  professed  carving-masters,  who 
taught  young  ladies  the  art  scientifically ;  from  one  of  whom 
Lady  Mary  took  lessons  three  times  a  week,  that  she  might 
be  perfect  on  her  father's  public  days  ;  when,  in  order  to 
perform  her  functions  without  interruption,  she  was  forced  to 
eat  her  own  dinner  alone  an  hour  or  two  beforehand. 

The  young  friends  of  Lady  Mary  were  such  as  the   Ear!y  friends. 
beautiful   Dolly   Walpole,   sister   of   Sir  Robert,   Lady 
Anne  Vaughan,    the  last  of  a  family  noted  for  giving 
Jeremy  Taylor  an  asylum  at  Golden  Grove  ;  amongst 
them  was  Mistress  Anne  Wortley. 

Mrs.  Anne  has  a  most  mature  sound  to  our  modern  ears,  but 
in  the  phraseology  of  those  days,  Miss,  which  had  hardly  yet 
ceased  to  be  a  term  of  reproach,  still  denoted  childishness, 
flippancy,  or  some  other  contemptible  quality,  and  was  rarely 
applied  to  young  ladies  of  a  respectable  class.  Nay,  Lady  Bute 
herself  could  remember  having  been  styled  Mistress  Wortley, 
when  a  child,  by  two  or  three  elderly  visitors,  as  tenacious  of 
their  ancient  modes  of  speech  as  of  other  old  fashions. 

Mistress  Anne  was  the  favorite  sister  of  Edward  Wort- 
ley,  whom  Lady  Mary  married.  Their  father  was  Mr. 
Sidney  Montagu.  This  old  gentleman  and  the  scene 
surrounding  him  were  distinctly  recollected  by  his 
granddaughter,  Lady  Mary's  daughter,  who  married 
the  Earl  of  Bute. 

She  described  him  as  a  large,  rough-looking  man,  with  a  huge 
flapped  hat,  seated  magisterially  in  his  elbow-chair,  talking   si"t"ypt" 
very  loud,  and  swearing  boisterously  at  his  servants  ;   while    Montagu, 
beside  him  sate  a  venerable  figure,  meek  and  benign  in  aspect, 
with  silver  locks,  overshadowed  by  a  black  velvet  cap.     This 


14      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

was  his  brother,  the  pious  Dean  Montagu,  who  every  now  and 
then  fetched  a  deep  sigh  and  cast  his  eyes  upward,  as  if 
silently  beseeching  heaven  to  pardon  the  profane  language 
which  he  condemned  but  durst  not  reprove.  Unlike  as  they 
were  in  their  habits  and  their  morals,  the  two  brothers  com- 
monly lived  together. 

Mr.  Edward  Wortley  Montagu  has  been  frequently 
described  as  a  grave,  saturnine  diplomatist,  with  whose 
character  the  sprightly  and  airy  woman  of  fashion  and 
literature  could  have  had  nothing  in  common  ;  and  as 
Lady  Mary  passed  the  latter  half  of  their  married  life 
away  from  him,  there  is  room  for  this  impression.  Still 
their  great-grandson,  Lord  Wharncliffe,  rather  resents 
this: 

It  is  hard  to  divine  why,  or  on  what  authority,  Mr.  Edward 
Character  of  Wortley  has  been  represented  by  late  writers  as  a  dull,  phleg- 
Edward  matic  country  gentleman — "of  a  tame  genius  and  moderate 

capacity,"  or  "of  parts  more  solid  than  brilliant" — which  in 
common  parlance  is  a  civil  way  of  saying  the  same  thing.  He 
had,  on  the  contrary,  one  of  those  strong  characters  that  are 
little  influenced  by  the  world's  opinion,  and  for  that  reason 
little  understood  by  the  unthinking  part  of  it.  All  who  really 
knew  him  while  living  held  him  a  man  distinguished  for  sound- 
ness of  judgment  and  clearness  of  understanding,  qualities 
nowise  akin  to  dulness  ;  they  allowed  him  also  to  be  a  first-rate 
scholar ;  and  as  he  had  traveled  more  than  most  young  men  of 
his  time,  it  is  probable  that  he  surpassed  them  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  modern  languages.  Polite  literature  was  his  passion  ; 
and  though  to  have  a  taste  for  wit  and  talents  may  not  certainly 
imply  a  gift  for  these,  yet  it  would  be  strange  if  the  alder- 
man-like mortal  depicted  above  had  sought  out  such  compan- 
ions as  Steele,  Garth,  Congreve,  etc.,  or  chosen  Addison  for 
his  bosom  friend.  The  only  picture  of  Mr.  Wortley  in  existence 
belonged  to  Addison.  The  face  seems  very  young,  and,  in 
spite  of  wig,  cravat,  and  other  deforming  appendages,  very 
handsome. 

Among  the  various  offers  of  marriage  which  I  expect 
in  the  course  of  this  book  to  present  as  signs  of  the  man- 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  15 


ners  of  our  period,  Mr.  Wortley's  will  come  in  as  an 
average  specimen  taken  from  real  life. 

His  society  was  principally  male,  the  wits  and  politicians  of 
that  day  forming  a  class  quite  distinct  from  the  "  white-gloved 
beau"  attendant  upon  ladies.  Indeed,  as  the  education  of 
women  had  then  reached  its  very  lowest  ebb,  and  if  not 
coquettes,  or  gossips,  or  diligent  card-players,  their  best  praise 
was  to  be  notable  housewives,  Mr.  Wortley  had  no  particular 
motive  to  seek  acquaintance  with  such  females.  His  surprise 
and  delight  were  the  greater  when  one  afternoon,  having  by 
chance  loitered  in  his  sister's  apartment  till  visitors  arrived,  he 
saw  Lady  Mary  Pierrepont  for  the  first  time,  and  on  entering 
into  conversation  with  her  found,  in  addition  to  beauty  that 
charmed  him,  not' only  brilliant  wit,  but  a  thinking  and  culti- 
vated mind.  He  was  especially  struck  with  the  discovery  that  o^er  Of 
she  knew  Latin,  and  could  relish  his  beloved  classics.  Some-  marriage, 
thing  that  passed  led  to  the  mention  of  Quintus  Curtius,  which 
she  said  she  had  never  read.  This  was  a  fair  handle  for  a 
piece  of  gallantry  ;  in  a  few  days  she  received  a  superb  edition 
of  the  author,  with  these  lines  facing  the  title-page  : 

Beauty  like  this  had  vanquished  Persia  shown, 
The  Macedon  had  laid  his  empire  down, 
And  polished  Greece  obeyed  a  barb'rous  throne. 
Had  wit  so  bright  adorned  a  Grecian  dame, 
The  am'rous  youth  had  lost  his  thirst  for  fame, 
Nor  distant  India  sought  through  Syria's  plain  ; 
But  to  the  Muses'  stream  with  her  had  run, 
And  thought  her  loved  more  than  Ammon's  son. 

How  soon  this  declaration  of  love  in  verse  was  followed  by 
one  in  prose  does  not  appear. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Lady  Mary's 
letters. 


Letter  to  Mrs. 
Wortley. 


THE  delightful  letters  of  Lady  Mary  have  given  her  a 
place  in  English  literature  like  that  of  Madame  de 
SeVign6  in  French,  although  nothing  could  be  more 
different  in  style  and  spirit.  She  had  the  true  gift  of 
letter-writing,  now  so  rapidly  dying  out  that  it  will  soon 
be  termed  obsolete.  Wherever  she  went  or  was  she 
wrote  long,  but  not  too  long,  letters  to  her  friends  and 
relatives.  Her  intimacy  with  the  best  society  of  her 
time,  either  intellectual  or  fashionable,  gives  the  value  of 
an  eye  witness  to  them.  They  become  a  key  or  clue  to 
the  manners  and  habits  of  the  leading  people  of  her 
generation.  I  select  extracts  from  such  letters  as  bear 
upon  the  manners  of  the  time  that  differ  from  our  own, 
without  dwelling  upon  the  morals,  a  task  of  a  different 
and  more  difficult  scope.  The  very  form  of  the  letters  is 
in  itself  an  indication  of  the  greater  stiffness  of  our 
grandmothers,  as  well  as  of  the  leisure  which  permitted 
them  to  indulge  it.  The  following  is  written  before  her 
marriage,  to  the  dear  friend  before  referred  to — Mistress 

Wortley  : 

August  <?,  /7<?p. 

I  shall  run  mad  : — with  what  heart  can  people  write  when 
they  believe  their  letters  will  never  be  received  ?  I  have  already 
writ  you  a  very  long  scrawl,  but  it  seems  it  never  came  to  your 
hands  ;  I  cannot  bear  to  be  accused  of  coldness  by  one  whom  I 
shall  love  all  my  life.  This  will  perhaps  miscarry  as  the  last 
did  ;  how  unfortunate  I  am  if  it  does  !  You  will  think  I  forget 
you  who  are  never  out  of  my  thoughts.  You  will  fancy  me 
stupid  enough  to  neglect  your  letters  when  they  are  the  only 
pleasures  of  my  solitude  ;  in  short,  you  will  call  me  ungrateful 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  17 

and  insensible  when  I  esteem  you  as  I  ought  in  esteeming  you 
above  all  the  world.  If  I  am  not  quite  so  unhappy  as  I  imagine, 
and  you  do  receive  this,  let  me  know  it  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  for 
till  then  I  shall  be  in  terrible  uneasiness  ;  and  let  me  beg  you 
for  the  future  if  you  do  not  receive  letters  very  constantly  from 
me,  imagine  the  post-boy  killed,  imagine  the  mail  burnt,  or 
some  other  strange  accident ;  you  can  imagine  nothing  so 
impossible  as  that  I  forget  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  VVortley.  I  know 
no  pretense  I  have  to  your  good  opinion  but  my  hearty  desir- 
ing it ;  I  wish  I  had  that  imagination  you  talk  of  to  render  me  a 
fitter  correspondent  for  you,  who  can  write  so  well  on  every- 
thing. I  am  now  so  much  alone  I  have  leisure  to  pass  whole 
days  in  reading,  but  am  not  at  all  proper  for  so  delicate  an 
employment  as  choosing  your  books.  Your  own  fancy  will 
better  direct  you.  My  study  at  present  is  nothing  but  diction- 
aries and  grammars.  I  am  trying  whether  it  be  possible  to  Study  of 

'     &  dictionaries 

learn  without  a  master  ;  I  am  not  certain,  and  dare  hardly  hope   and  grammars. 

I  shall  make  any  great  progress  ;  but  I  find  the  study  so  divert- 
ing, I  am  not  only  easy,  but  pleased  with  the  solitude  that 
indulges  it.  I  forget  there  is  such  a  place  as  London,  and  wish 
for  no  company  but  yours.  You  see,  my  dear,  in  making  my 
pleasures  consist  of  these  unfashionable  diversions,  I  am  not  of 
the  number  who  cannot  be  easy  out  of  the  mode.  I  believe 
more  follies  are  committed  out  of  complaisance  to  the  world 
than  in  following  our  own  inclinations ;  nature  is  seldom  in  the 
wrong,  custom  always  ;  it  is  with  some  regret  I  follow  it  in  all 
the  impertinencies  of  dress  ;  the  compliance  is  so  trivial  it  com- 
forts me  ;  but  I  am  amazed  to  see  it  consulted  even  in  the  most 
important  occasions  of  our  lives  ;  and  that  people  of  good  sense 
in  other  things  can  make  their  happiness  consist  in  the  opinions  opfnYdns. 
of  others,  and  sacrifice  everything  to  the  desire  of  appearing  in 
fashion.  I  call  all  people  who  fall  in  love  with  furniture, 
clothes,  and  equipage,  of  this  number,  and  I  look  upon  them  as 
no  less  in  the  wrong  than  when  they  were  five  years  old,  and 
doated  on  shells,  pebbles,  and  hobby-horses.  I  believe  you 
will  expect  this  letter  to  be  dated  from  the  other  world,  for  sure 
I  am  you  never  heard  an  inhabitant  of  this  talk  so  before.  I 
suppose  you  expect,  too,  I  should  conclude  with  begging  par- 
don for  this  extreme  tedious,  and  very  nonsensical  letter ; 
quite  contrary,  I  think  you  will  be  obliged  to  me  for  it.  I  could 
not  better  show  my  great  concern  for  your  reproaching  me  with 


1 8       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

neglect  I  knew  myself  innocent  of,  than  proving  myself  mad  in 
these  pages.  My  sister  says  a  great  deal  about  Mrs.  K.  ;  but 
besides  my  having  forgot  it,  the  paper  is  at  an  end. 

Tedious  indeed,  and  the  writer  but  nineteen  ! 

Although  the  alliance  with  Mr.  Wortley  Montagu  was 

^adivMar0-       a  g°°d  one,  and  was  received  cordially  by  the  father  of 

an  elopement,      ^e  bride  at  first,   difficulties  arose  about  settlements, 

with  the  result   that   the   young  pair  ran  away  to  be 

married.      The  following  on  the  eve  of  the  event ;  being 

more  genuine  we  may  suppose  than  that  just  given,  it  is 

more  brief : 

Friday  night. 

I  tremble  for  what  we  are  doing.  Are  you  sure  you  shall  love 
me  forever  ?  Shall  we  never  repent  ?  I  fear  and  I  hope.  I 
foresee  all  that  will  happen  on  this  occasion.  I  shall  incense 
my  family  in  the  highest  degree.  The  generality  of  the  world 
will  blame  my  conduct,  and  relations  and  friends  will  invent  a 
thousand  stories  of  me.  Yet,  'tis  possible,  you  may  recom- 
pense everything  to  me.  In  this  letter,  which  I  am  fond  of,  you 
promise  me  all  that  I  wish.  Since  I  writ  so  far  I  received  your 
Friday  letter.  I  will  be  only  yours  and  I  will  do  what  you 
please. 

And  the  next  day  : 

Saturday  morning. 

.  .  .  Reflect  now  for  the  last  time  in  what  manner  you 
must  take  me.  I  told  a  lady  of  my  friends  what  I  intend  to  do. 
You  will  think  her  a  very  good  friend  when  I  tell  you  she 
proffered  to  lend  us  her  house.  I  did  not  accept  of  this  till  I 
had  let  you  know  it.  If  you  think  it  more  convenient  to  carry 

me  to  your  lodgings,  make  no  scruple  of  it.     .     .     .     I  again 
The  arrange-         ,  .      ,  ,    .     ,  ,     ,,        , 

ments.  beg  you  to  have  a  coach  to  be  at  the  door  early  Monday  morn- 

ing, to  carry  us  some  part  of  our  way,  wherever  you  resolve  our 
journey  shall  be.  If  you  determine  to  go  to  the  lady's  house 
you  had  best  come  with  a  coach  and  six  at  seven  o'clock  to- 
morrow. She  and  I  will  be  in  the  balcony  which  looks  on  the 
road  ;  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stop  under  it,  and  we  will 
come  down  to  you.  Do  in  this  what  you  like  ;  but  after  all 
think  very  seriously.  Your  letter,  which  will  be  waited  for,  is 
to  determine  evervthinsr. 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  19 


In  1716  Lady  Mary  accompanied  her  husband  on  his 
embassy  to  the  court  of  Constantinople,  and  she  has,  in  Beginning  of 

her  travels 

her  letters,   described  her  travels  over  Europe  and  the  over  Europe. 
East.     They  left  England  in  a  yacht,  and  having  set  out 
in  a  calm  were  two  days  before  reaching  Rotterdam. 
She  says  : 

August  3,  1716. 

The  wind  blew  so  hard  that  none  of  the  sailors  could  keep 
their  feet,  and  we  were  all  Sunday  night  tossed  very  hand- 
somely. I  never  saw  a  man  more  frighted  than  the  captain. 
For  my  part,  I  have  been  so  lucky,  neither  to  suffer  from  fear 
nor  sea-sickness ;  though  I  confess  I  was  so  impatient  to  see 
myself  once  more  upon  dry  land  that  I  would  not  stay  till  the 
yacht  could  get  to  Rotterdam,  but  went  in  the  long  boat  to 
Helvoetsluys,  where  we  had  voitures  to  carry  us  to  the  Brill. 

Cologn,  August  16  (O.  S.),  1716. 

If  my  Lady  Rich  could  have  any  notion  of  the  fatigues  that 
I  have  suffered  these  last  two  days,  I  am  sure  she  would  own  it 
a  great  proof  of  regard  that  I  now  sit  down  to  write  to  her.  We 
hired  horses  from  Nimeguen  hither,  not  having  the  conveniency 
of  the  post,  and  found  but  very  indifferent  accommodations  at 
Reinberg,  our  first  stop  ;  but  that  was  nothing  to  what  I  suffered 
yesterday.  We  were  in  hopes  to  reach  Cologn  ;  our  horses 
tired  at  Stamel,  three  hours  from  it,  where  I  was  forced  to  pass 
the  night  in  my  clothes,  in  a  room  not  at  all  better  than  a 
hovel  ;  for  though  I  have  my  own  bed  with  me  I  had  no  mind 
to  undress  where  the  wind  came  from  a  thousand  places. 

Arrived  at  Vienna,  six  weeks   from  Rotterdam,  she 
sends  her  sister  a  long  letter,  describing  her  first  going  Vienna" 
to  court.      I  print  a  short  part  of  it  as  showing  London 
fashions  by  contrast. 

In  order  to  that  ceremony,  I  was  squeezed  up  into  a  gown 
and  adorned  with  a  gorget  and  the  other  implements  thereunto 
belonging ;  a  dress  very  inconvenient,  but  which  certainly 
shows  the  neck  and  shape  to  great  advantage.  I  cannot  for- 
bear giving  you  some  description  of  the  fashions  here,  which 
are  more  monstrous  and  contrary  to  all  common  sense  and 


2O      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

reason  than  'tis  possible  for  you  to  imagine.  They  build  cer- 
Description  of  tain  fabrics  of  gauze  on  their  heads,  about  a  yard  high,  consist- 
feshions6  *n&  °^  tnree  or  f°ur  stories,  fortified  with  numberless  yards  of 

heavy  ribbon.  The  foundation  of  this  structure  is  a  thing  they 
call  a  Bourle,  which  is  exactly  of  the  same  shape  and  kind,  but 
about  four  times  as  big,  as  those  rolls  our  prudent  milkmaids 
make  use  of  to  fix  their  pails  upon.  This  machine  they  cover 
with  their  own  hair,  which  they  mix  with  a  great  deal  of  false, 
it  being  a  particular  beauty  to  have  their  heads  too  large  to  go 
into  a  moderate  tub.  Their  hair  is  prodigiously  powdered,  to 
conceal  the  mixture,  and  set  out  with  three  or  four  rows  of 
bodkins,  wonderfully  large,  that  stick  out  two  or  three  inches 
from  their  hair,  made  of  diamonds,  pearls,  red,  green,  and 
yellow  stones,  that  it  certainly  requires  as  much  art  and  expe- 
rience to  carry  the  load  upright  as  to  dance  upon  May  Day  with 
the  garland.  Their  whalebone  petticoats  outdo  ours  by  several 
yards'  circumference,  and  cover  some  acres  of  ground.  You 
may  easily  suppose  how  this  extraordinary  dress  sets  off  and 
improves  the  natural  ugliness  with  which  God  Almighty  has 
been  pleased  to  endow  them  generally  speaking. 

Prague,  November  77,  1716. 

.     .     .     This  town  was  once  the  royal  seat  of  the  Bohemian 
Prague.'  °  kings,  and  is  still  the  capital  of  the  kingdom.     There  are  yet 

some  remains  of  its  former  splendor,  being  one  of  the  largest 
towns  in  Germany,  but,  for  the  most  part,  old  built  and  thinly 
inhabited,  which  makes  the  houses  very  cheap.  Those  people 
of  quality  who  cannot  easily  bear  the  expense  of  Vienna 
choose  to  reside  here,  where  they  have  assemblies,  music,  and 
all  other  diversions  (those  of  a  court  excepted)  at  very  moder- 
ate rates,  all  things  being  here  in  great  abundance,  especially 
the  best  wild-fowl  I  ever  tasted.  I  have  already  been  visited 
by  some  of  the  most  considerable  ladies,  whose  relations  I 
knew  at  Vienna.  They  are  dressed  after  the  fashions  there, 
after  the  manner  that  the  people  at  Exeter  imitate  those  of 
London  ;  that  is,  their  imitation  is  more  excessive  than  the 
original.  'Tis  not  easy  to  describe  what  extraordinary  figures 
they  make.  The  person  is  so  much  lost  between  head-dress 
and  petticoat  that  they  have  as  much  occasion  to  write  upon 
their  backs,  "This  is  a  woman,"  for  the  information  of  trav- 
elers, as  ever  sign-post  painter  had  to  write,  "This  is  a  bear." 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  21 


In  the  next  letter  the  absence  of  any  feeling  for 
scenery  is  to  be  noticed. 

Leipzig,  Nov.  21,  1716. 

I  believe,  dear  sister,  you  will  easily  forgive  my  not  writing 
to  you  from  Dresden,  as  I  promised,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  Dangerous 
never  went  out  of  my  chaise  from  Prague  to  this  place.  You  journey  to 
may  imagine  how  heartily  I  was  tried  with  twenty-four  hours' 
post-traveling  without  sleep  or  refreshment  (for  I  can  never 
sleep  in  a  coach,  however  fatigued).  We  passed  by  moon- 
shine the  frightful  precipices  that  divide  Bohemia  from  Saxony, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  runs  the  river  Elbe  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
that  I  had  reason  to  fear  drowning  in  it,  being  perfectly  con- 
vinced that,  in  case  of  a  tumble,  it  was  utterly  impossible  to 
come  alive  to  the  bottom.  In  many  places  the  road  is  so 
narrow  that  I  could  not  discern  an  inch  of  space  between  the 
wheels  and  the  precipice.  Yet  I  was  so  good  a  wife  as  not  to 
wake  Mr.  Wortley,  who  was  fast  asleep  by  my  side,  to  make 
him  share  in  my  fears,  since  the  danger  was  unavoidable,  till  I 
perceived  by  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  our  postillions 
nodding  on  horseback,  while  the  horses  were  on  a  full  gallop. 
Then  indeed  I  thought  it  very  convenient  to  call  out  to  desire 
them  to  look  where  they  were  going.  My  calling  waked  Mr. 
Wortley  and  he  was  much  more  surprised  than  myself  at  the 
situation  we  were  in,  and  assured  me  that  he  passed  the  Alps 
five  times  in  different  places  without  ever  having  gone  a  road 
so  dangerous.  I  have  been  told  since  that  it  is  common  to 
find  the  bodies  of  travelers  in  the  Elbe  ;  but,  thank  God,  that 
was  not  our  destiny  ;  and  we  came  safe  to  Dresden,  so  much 
tired  with  fear  and  fatigue  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  com- 
pose myself  to  write.  After  passing  those  dreadful  rocks,  Dresden. 
Dresden  appeared  to  me  a  wonderfully  agreeable  situation,  in 
a  fine  large  plain  on  the  banks  of  the  Elbe.  I  was  very  glad  to 
stay  there  a  day  to  rest  myself.  The  town  is  the  neatest  I 
have  seen  in  Germany  ;  most  of  the  houses  are  new  built ;  the 
elector's  palace  is  very  handsome,  and  his  repository  full  of 
curiosities  of  different  kinds,  with  a  collection  of  medals  very 
much  esteemed. 

Frightful  precipices,  dreadful  rocks  ;  they  looked  in 
the  Elbe  for  bodies  of  travelers,  but  apparently  sa\v  no 
beauty  there. 


22       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Hanover,  Nor.  25,  1716. 

To  THE  COUNTESS  OF  BRISTOL  :  I  received  your  ladyship's 
letter  but  the  day  before  I  left  Vienna  (November  isth), 
though  by  the  date  I  ought  to  have  had  it  much  sooner ;  but 
nothing  was  ever  worse  regulated  than  the  post  in  most  parts 
of  Germany.  I  would  not  longer  delay  my  thanks  for  yours, 
The  court  at  though  the  number  of  my  acquaintances  here  and  my  duty  of 
attending  at  court  leave  me  hardly  any  time  to  dispose  of.  I 
am  extremely  pleased  that  I  can  tell  you  without  flattery  or 
partiality  that  our  young  prince  [afterward  George  II.]  has  all 
the  accomplishments  that  it  is  possible  to  have  at  his  age,  with 
an  air  of  sprightliness  and  understanding,  and  something  so 
very  engaging  and  easy  in  his  behavior  that  he  needs  not  the 
advantage  of  his  rank  to  appear  charming.  I  had  the  honor  of 
a  long  conversation  with  him  last  night  before  the  king  came 
in.  His  governor  retired  on  purpose,  as  he  told  me  afterward, 
that  I  might  make  some  judgment  of  his  genius  by  hearing 
him  speak  without  constraint ;  and  I  was  surprised  at  the 
quickness  and  politeness  that  appeared  in  everything  he  said  ; 
joined  to  a  person  perfectly  agreeable  and  the  fine  fair  hair  of 
the  princess.  This  town  is  neither  large  nor  handsome ;  but 
the  palace  is  capable  of  holding  a  much  greater  court  than  that 
of  St.  James's.  The  king  has  had  the  goodness  to  appoint  us 
a  lodging  in  one  part  of  it,  without  which  we  should  have 
been  very  ill  accommodated  ;  for  the  vast  number  of  English 
crowds  the  town  so  much  it  is  very  good  luck  to  get  one  sorry 
room  in  a  miserable  tavern.  I  dined  to-day  with  the  Portu- 
guese ambassador,  who  thinks  himself  very  happy  to  have 
two  wretched  parlors  in  an  inn. 

This  king  was  George  I.  of  Brunswick,  who  had  suc- 
r.eorgei.of        ceeded  to  the  throne  of  Queen  Anne  in  1714.      Much  of 

Brunswick.  ,  •         •  ,  r    T^        1         i  TT  i 

his  time  was  passed  out  or  hngland  at  Hanover,  where 
the  court  was  kept  up  with  as  much  state  as  that  of  St. 
James.       The  young  prince  was  to  succeed  his  father,  as 
George  II.,  some  thirty  years  later. 
She  goes  on,  in  the  same  letter  : 

I  have  now  made  the  tour  of  Germany,  and  cannot  help 
observing  a  considerable  difference  between  traveling  here  and 
in  England.  One  sees  none  of  those  fine  seats  of  noblemen  so 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  23 


common  amongst  us,  nor  anything  like  a  country  gentleman's 
house,  though  they  have  many  situations  perfectly  fine.  But 
the  whole  people  are  divided  into  absolute  sovereignties,  where 
all  the  riches  and  magnificence  are  at  court,  or  into  communi- 
ties of  merchants,  such  as  Nuremburg  and  Frankfort,  where 
they  live  always  in  town  for  the  convenience  of  trade.  The 
king's  company  of  French  comedians  play  here  every  night. 
They  are  very  well  dressed,  and  some  of  them  not  ill-actors. 
His  majesty  dines  and  sups  constantly  in  public.  The  court 
is  very  numerous,  and  his  affability  and  goodness  make  it  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  places  in  the  world. 

.  I  was  sorry  that  the  ill  weather  did  not  permit  me  to 
see  Herrenhausen  in  all  its  beauty  ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  snow,  I 
thought  the  gardens  very  fine.  I  was  particularly  surprised  at  Gardens  of 
the  vast  number  of  orange-trees,  much  larger  than  any  I  have  Herrenhausen. 
ever  seen  in  England,  though  this  climate  is  certainly  colder. 
But  I  had  more  reason  to  wonder  that  night,  at  the  king's  table, 
to  see  a  present  from  a  gentleman  of  this  country,  of  two  large 
baskets  of  ripe  oranges  and  lemons  of  different  sorts,  many  of 
which  were  quite  new  to  me  ;  and  what  I  thought  worth  all  the 
rest,  two  ripe  ananas,  which,  to  my  taste,  are  a  fruit  perfectly 
delicious.  You  know  they  are  naturally  the  growth  of  Brazil,  Rlpe  ananas- 
and  I  could  not  imagine  how  they  came  here  but  by  enchant- 
ment. Upon  inquiry,  I  learnt  that  they  have  brought  their 
stoves  to  such  perfection,  they  lengthen  their  summers  as  long 
as  they  please,  giving  to  every  plant  the  degree  of  heat  it  would 
receive  from  the  sun  in  its  native  soil.  The  effect  is  very  nearly 
the  same.  I  am  surprised  we  do  not  practice  in  England  so 
useful  an  invention.  This  reflection  leads  me  to  consider  our 
obstinacy  in  shaking  with  the  cold  five  months  in  the  year, 
rather  than  make  use  of  stoves,  which  are  certainly  one  of  the 
greatest  conveniences  of  life.  Besides  they  are  so  far  from 
spoiling  the  form  of  a  room,  that  they  add  very  much  to  the 
magnificence  of  it,  when  they  are  painted  and  gilt,  as  they  are 
at  Vienna,  or  at  Dresden,  where  they  are  often  in  the  shapes  of 
china  jars,  statues,  or  fine  cabinets,  so  naturally  represented 
that  they  are  not  to  be  distinguished.  If  I  ever  return,  in 
defiance  to  the  fashion  you  shall  certainly  see  one  in  the 
chamber  of,  dear  sister,  your,  etc. 

Lady  Mary  arrived   in  Adrianople,  April  i  (O.  S.), 


24       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

1717,  "having  finished  a  journey,"  as  she  says  in  a 
letter  to  her  R.  H.  the  Princess  of  Wales  (afterward 
Queen  Caroline),  "that  has  not  been  undertaken  by 
any  Christian  since  the  time  of  the  Greek  emperors." 

I  pass  over  the  letters  from  the  East,  because  in  spite 
Treatment  for     of  their  amusing  accounts  of  her  observations  of  eastern 

small-pox. 

scenes  and  manners,  they  contain  little  reference  to  the 
subject  we  have  now  in  hand.  For  the  same  reason  I 
omit  the  account  of  her  course  in  regard  to  inoculation 
for  small-pox,  which  interested  her  greatly  during  her 
stay  in  the  East.  The  success  of  this  treatment  is 
mainly  to  be  attributed  to  her  intelligence  and  perse- 
verance in  spite  of  much  opposition  against  so  great  an 
innovation. 

Returning   to    England,    they   arrived   at    Dover    in 
England.  October  (O.  S.),  1718,  after  an  absence  of  a  little  over 

two  years.      She  says  : 

I  cannot  help  looking  with  partial  eyes  on  my  native  land. 
That  partiality  was  given  us  by  nature,  to  prevent  rambling, 
the  effect  of  an  ambitious  thirst  after  knowledge  which  we  are 
not  formed  to  enjoy.  All  we  get  by  it  is  a  fruitless  desire  of 
mixing  the  different  pleasures  and  conveniences  which  are 
given  to  the  different  parts  of  the  world,  and  cannot  meet  in 
any  one  of  them.  After  having  read  all  that  is  to  be  found  in 
the  languages  I  am  mistress  of,  and  having  decayed  my  sight 
by  midnight  studies,  I  envy  the  easy  peace  of  mind  of  a  ruddy 
milkmaid,  who,  undisturbed  by  doubt,  hears  the  sermon  with 
humility  every  Sunday,  not  having  confounded  the  sentiments 
of  natural  duty  in  her  head  by  the  vain  inquiries  of  the  schools, 
who  may  be  more  learned,  yet,  after  all,  must  remain  as 
ignorant.  And,  after  having  seen  part  of  Asia  and  Africa,  and 
almost  made  the  tour  of  Europe,  I  think  the  honest  English 
squire  more  happy,  who  verily  believes  the  Greek  wines  less 
delicious  than  March  beer  ;  that  the  African  fruits  have  not  so 
fine  a  flavor  as  golden  pippins  ;  that  the  Becafiguas  of  Italy 
Content  with  are  not  so  Well  tasted  as  a  rump  of  beef;  and  that,  in  short, 

home. 

there  is  no  perfect  enjoyment  of  this  life  out  of  Old  England. 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  25 

I  pray  God  I  may  think  so  for  the  rest  of  my  life  ;  and  since  I 
must  be  contented  with  our  scanty  allowance  of  daylight,  that 
I  may  forget  the  enlivening  sun  of  Constantinople. 

Yet  she  passed  the  latter  half  of  her  life  abroad  ! 

Before  she  left  England  Lady  Mary  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Pope  ;  during  her  absence  they  corre- 
sponded, and  on  her  return  the  intimacy  was  con- 
tinued. It  was  no  doubt  owing  to  Pope's  suggestions 
that  she  took  a  house  at  Twickenham,  where  she  often  House  at 

.  ,    .  t  ,  .  e    T          1  f         Twickenham. 

withdrew  from  the  excitements  or  London  society,  for 
which,  however,  at  this  period  she  had  no  doubt  a  keen 
enjoyment.  Her  house  in  town  was  in  Cavendish 
Square. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  name  of  Alexander  Pope  stands  first  in  the 
Alexander  brilliant  period  of  Queen  Anne's  time.  He  early 
showed  great  precocity  of  intellect,  although  of  almost 
dwarfish  stature,  deformed,  and  during  his  life  under- 
going much  physical  suffering.  His  father's  fortune 
was  sufficient  to  allow  him  to  indulge  his  taste  for 
study.  At  sixteen  he  began  his  literary  career,  and 
from  that  early  period  his  activity  was  unremitting, 
and  a  succession  of  his  works,  varied  in  subject,  and 
especially  remarkable  for  polish  of  style,  placed  him  at 
the  head  of  the  poets  of  his  age.  In  addition  to 
giving  to  the  world  his  own  compositions,  Pope  trans- 
lated into  English  verse  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of 
Homer,  a  work  published  by  subscription,  and  a  most 
successful  pecuniary  venture,  by  which  he  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  a  competence  which  he  enjoyed  with  good 
sense  and  moderation. 

During  the  early  part  of  his  life  he  lived  with  his 
parents  at  Chiswick,  but  on  the  death  of  his  father  he 
removed  to  a  villa  he  had  bought  at  Twickenham, 
where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life,  in  easy  cir- 
cumstances and  in  familiar  intercourse  with  most  of  the 
leading  statesmen,  orators,  and  men  of  letters  of  the 
day. 

"Rape  of  the  It  was  in  1712  that  Pope  produced  the  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock,"  not  only  his  most  charming  production,  but, 
in  general  esteem,  the  most  charming  production  of  the 
century  in  which  he  lived. 

The  subject  came  to  him  from  a  "society  event,"  as 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  27 


it  would  be  now  called  in  our  newspapers.  Lord  Petre 
had  offended  Miss  Fermor  by  stealing  a  lock  of  her  pog^ctofthe 
hair.  She  thought  he  showed  more  gallantry  than 
courtesy,  and  some  unpleasant  feeling  resulted  between 
the  families.  A  friend  suggested  to  Pope  that  a  light, 
brilliant  trifle  from  his  hand  turning  the  matter  into 
kindly  ridicule  might  allay  irritation.  Pope  accord- 
ingly produced  his  dainty  little  mock  heroic,  in  which 
he  describes  the  fatal  scene  at  Hampton,  in  which 
the  too  daring  peer  appropriated  the  lock.  The  poem 
received  the  praise  which  it  well  deserved  ;  no  more 
brilliant,  sparkling,  vicacious  trifle  is  to  be  found  in  our 
literature.  Pope  obtained  permission  ^  to  publish  it 
(1712),  and  a  wider  circle  admired  it;  in  1714  it 
appeared  again  in  a  new  form,  with  sylphs  and  gnomes, 
and  an  ingenious  account  of  a  game  at  cards.  The 
quotations  here  given  are  selected  to  show  some  prac- 
tices of  the  toilet,  etc.,  common  to  the  period. 

THE  TOILET. 

And  now,  unveil'd,  the  toilet  stands  display'd, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 

First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores, 

With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers.  18  °f 

A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears, 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears  ; 

Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 

Trembling,  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 

Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 

The  various  off 'rings  of  the  world  appear  ; 

From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 

This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 

And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 

The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 

Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 


28       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billet-doux. 

Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 

The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 

Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 

And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face  : 

Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 

The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care  ; 

These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair  ; 

Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the  gown  ; 

And  Betty's  prais'd  for  labors  not  her  own. 


THE  GAME  OF  CARDS. 

Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Description  of         Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights, 
cards.  At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom  ; 

And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to  come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to  join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  Nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card  : 
First  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore  : 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold,  four  Kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard  ; 
And  four  fair  Queens,  whose  hands  sustain  a  flower, 
Th'  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power  ; 
Four  Knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band, 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberds  in  their  hands  ; 
And  parti-colored  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Drawn  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 

The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with  care  ; 
"  Let  .Spades  be  trumps  !  "  she  said,  and  trumps  they  were. 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 

In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Method  of  „        ....      r  ,  .     .       . 

warfare.  bpaunlo  first,  unconquerable  lord, 

Led  off  t\vo  captive  trumps,  and  sxvept  the  board. 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  29 

As  many  more  Manillio  forc'd  to  yield, 

And  march'd  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 

Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard, 

Gain'd  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 

With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 

The  hoary  majesty  of  Spades  appears, 

Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  re  veal' d, 

The  rest,  his  many-colored  robe  conceal'd. 

The  rebel  Knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage, 

Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 

Ev'n  mighty  Pam,  that  Kings  and  Queens  o'erthrew, 

And  mow'd  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  loo, 

Sad  chance  of  war  !  now  destitute  of  aid, 

Falls  undistinguish'd  by  the  victor  Spade  ! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield  ; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field, 

His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades,  BdLd*?"""  °f 

Th'  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  Spades. 
The  Club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died. 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien  and  barb'rous  pride  ; 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs  in  state  unwieldy  spread  ; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe  ? 

The  baron  now  his  Diamonds  pours  apace  ; 
Th'  embroidered  King  who  shows  but  half  a  face, 
And  his  refulgent  Queen  with  pow'rs  combin'd, 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  Diamonds,  Hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strow  the  level  green. 
Thus  when  dispers'd  a  routed  army  runs 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye. 

The  pierc'd  battalions  disunited  fall,  haro^ph  °f  the 

In  heaps  on  heaps  ;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them  all. 

The  Knave  of  Diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh,  shameful  chance  !)  the  Queen  of  Hearts. 
At  this,  the  blood  the  virgin's  face  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look  ; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 


30      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Centiiry, 

Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin  and  codille. 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distemper'd  state) 

On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  gen'ral  fate  : 

An  Ace  of  Hearts  steps  forth  :  the  King  unseen 

Lurk'd  in  her  hand,  and  mourn'd  his  captive  Queen  ; 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 

And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  Ace. 

The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky  ; 

The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 


THE  COFFEE. 

For  lo  !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crown'd, 

Serving  coffee          The  berries  crackle  and  the  mill  turns  round  ; 
described.  .    .          ,  .  , 

On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 

The  silver  lamp  ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze  ; 
From  silver  spouts  the  graceful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide  ; 
At  once  they  gratify  their  sense  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band, 
Some,  as  she  sipp'd,  the  fuming  liquor  fann'd  ; 
Some,  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  displayed, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth  !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate  ! 
Chang'd  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair  ! 


THE  CLIPPING. 

Just  then  Clarissa  drew,  with  tempting  grace, 
fteaifnS  th  ^  two-edg'd  weapon  from  her  shining  case  ; 

lock.  So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 

Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 

He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  31 

The  little  engine  on  his  finger  ends  ; 

This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 

As  o'er  the  fragrant  stream  she  bends  her  head. 

Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 

A  thousand  wings  by  turns  blow  back  the  hair  ! 

And  thrice  they  twitch'd  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ; 

Thrice  she  look'd  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 

Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 

The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought ; 

As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclin'd, 

He  watch'd  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 

Sudden  he  view'd,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 

An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 

Amaz'd,  confus'd,  he  found  his  power  expir'd, 

Resign'd  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retir'd. 

The  peer  now  spread  the  glittering  forfex  wide 

T'inclose  the  lock  ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide.  The  scissors- 

Ev'n  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  clos'd, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interpos'd  ; 
Fate  urged  the  shears  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain  ; 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again  ;) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever, 
From  the  fair  head,  forever  and  forever. 

Then  flash'd  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affright'd  skies. 
Not  louder  shreaks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast 
When  husbands  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their  last  ! 

Or  when  rich  china  vessels,  fall'n  from  high,  The  consum- 

In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie. 


THE  REVENGE. 

See  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies 
With  more  than  usual  lightnings  in  her  eyes  : 
Nor  fear'd  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to  try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength  endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued  ; 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw  ; 


32       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  startling  tears  each  eye  o'erflows, 
And  the  high  dome  reechoes  to  his  nose. 

Belinda's  "  Now  meet  thy  fate  !"  incens'd  Belinda  cry'd, 

weaP°n-  And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 

(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 
Her  great-great-grandsire  wore  about  his  neck, 
In  three  seal  rings  ;  which  after,  melted  down, 
Form'd  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown  ; 
Her  infant  grandame's  whistle  next  it  grew, 
The  bell  she  jingled  and  the  whistle  blew  ; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

"  Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cry'd,  "  insulting  foe  ! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low  ; 
Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind  : 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind  ! 
Rather  than  so,  ah  !  let  me  still  survive, 
And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames — but  burn  alive." 

"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  she  cries  ;  and  all  around, 
"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roar'd  for  the  handkerchief  that  caus'd  his  pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  cross'd, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 
The  lock,  obtain'd  with  guilt  and  kept  with  pain, 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain  : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest — 
So  heaven  decrees  !    With  heaven  who  can  contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
Since  all  things  lust  on  earth  are  treasured  there  ; 
Disappearance         There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  Vases, 
And  beaux'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer  cases  ; 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  ribband  bound  ; 
Cages  for  gnats  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea, 
Dry'd  butterflies  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  .Muse — she  sa\v  it  upward  rise, 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick  poetic  eyes  ; 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens  withdrew, 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  33 

To  Proculus  alone  confess'd  in  view  :) 

A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air,  Transposed  to 

And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 

Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 

The  heaven  bespangling  with  dishevell'd  light. 

The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies, 

And  pleased,  pursue  its  progress  through  the  skies. 

This  the  beau-monde  shall  from  the  Mall  survey, 

And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 

This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake. 

This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless  skies 

When  next  he  looks  through  Galilaeo's  eyes  ; 

And  hence  the  egregious  wizard  shall  foredoom 

The  fate  of  Louis  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph  !  to  mourn  thy  ravish'd  hair, 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere  ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 
For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye, 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die  ; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they  must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust, 
This  lock,  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 

I  put  in  this  account  of  ombre  to  preserve  the  de- 
scription of  one  of  the  very  most  favorite  pursuits  of 
the  fine  ladies  of  the  eighteenth  century — cards.  They 
played  incessantly,  and  evidently  for  money. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

POPE  had  now  reached  independence,   and  became 
the   acknowledged   head  of  the   literary  world  ;    there 
DdsltkmUoSfhed     were  indeed  few  eminent  persons  of  the  time,  either  in 
p°Pe-  political  or  literary  circles,  with  whom  this  sensitive  and 

restless  little  invalid  did  not  come  into  contact,  hostile 
or  friendly,  at  some  part  of  his  career.  His  friendships 
were  keen  and  his  hostilities  more  than  proportionately 
bitter.  We  see  his  fragile  figure  glancing  rapidly  from 
one  hospitable  circle  to  another,  but  always  standing 
a  little  apart ;  now  paying  court  to  some  conspicuous 
wit,  or  philosopher,  or  statesman,  or  beauty  ;  now 
taking  deadly  offense  for  some  inexplicable  reason ; 
writhing  with  agony  under  clumsy  blows  which  a 
robuster  nature  would  have  met  with  contemptuous 
laughter  ;  racking  his  wits  to  contrive  exquisite  compli- 
ments, and  suddenly  exploding  with  sheer  Billingsgate, 
always  preoccupied  with  his  last  literary  project ;  and 
yet  finding  time  for  innumerable  intrigues,  for  carrying 
out  schemes  of  vengeance  for  wounded  vanity,  and 
for  introducing  himself  into  every  quarrel  that  was 
going  on  around  him. 

When  Pope  finished  his  translation  of  the  Iliad,  his 
Mistranslation    friend  Gay  congratulated   him    in  a   pleasant   copy  of 

of  the  Iliad,  y  •  i  •       r  • 

verses.  Gay  represents  himself  welcoming  his  friend 
on  the  return  from  a  long  voyage,  meaning  the  occupa- 
tion of  his  mind  in  Greece,  although  Pope  had  not 
stirred  from  England. 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  35 

Did  I  not  see  thee  when  thou  first  set'st  sail 

To  seek  adventures  fair  in  Homer's  land  ?  Gay's  verses  on 

Did  I  not  see  thy  sinking  spirits  fail,  o^the Tra'nsla" 

And  wish  thy  bark  had  never  left  the  strand  ?  tion. 

Ev'n  in  mid  ocean  often  didst  thou  quail, 

And  oft  lift  up  thy  holy  eye  and  hand. 
Praying  the  virgin  dear  and  saintly  choir 
Back  to  the  port  to  bring  thy  bark  entire. 

Cheer  up,  my  friend !  thy  dangers  now  are  o'er ; 

Methinks — nay,  sure  the  rising  coasts  appear. 
Hark  !  how  the  guns  salute  from  either  shore, 

As  thy  trim  vessel  cuts  the  Thames  so  fair  ; 
Shouts  answering  shouts  from  Kent  and  Essex  roar, 

And  bells  break  loud  through  every  gust  of  air : 
Bonfires  do  blaze  and  bones  and  cleavers  ring 
As  at  the  coming  of  some  mighty  king. 


Oh,  what  a  concourse  swarms  on  yonder  quay  ! 

„,         .  ...  .  ,  ,  -  .  The  crowd 

The  sky  reechoes  with  new  shouts  of  joy  ;  awaits  the 

By  all  this  show,  I  ween,  'tis  Lord  Mayor's  day  ; 

I  hear  the  sound  of  trumpet  and  haut-boy — 
No,  now  I  see  them  near — Oh,  these  are  they 

Who  come  in  crowds  to  welcome  thee  from  Troy. 
Hail  to  the  bard,  whom  long  lost  we  mourned  ; 
From  siege,  from  battle,  and  from  storm  returned  ! 

Of  goodly  dames  and  courteous  knights  I  view 

The  silken  petticoat  and  broider'd  vest ; 
Yea,  peers  and  mighty  dukes,  with  ribbands  blue 

(True  blue,  fair  emblem  of  unstained  breast). 
Others  I  see,  as  noble  and  more  true, 

By  no  court-badge  distinguished  from  the  rest  : 
First  see  I  Methuen,  of  sincerest  mind, 
As  Arthur  grave,  as  soft  as  womankind. 

What  lady's  that  to  whom  he  gently  bends  ? 

Who  knows  not  her?     Ah  !  those  are  WORTLEY'S  eyes.         Ladies  fair. 
How  art  thou  honor'd  number'd  with  her  friends  ! 

For  she  distinguishes  the  good  and  wise. 
The  sweet-tongued  Murray  near  her  side  attends  ; 


36       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Now  to  my  heart  the  glance  of  Howard  flies  ; 
Now  Hervey,  fair  of  face,  I  mark  full  well, 
With  thee,  youth's  youngest  daughter,  sweet  Lepell  ! 

How  lov'd,  how  honor'd  thou  !  yet  be  not  vain  ; 

And  sure  thou  art  not,  for  I  hear  thee  say, 
All  this,  my  friends,  I  owe  to  Homer's  strain, 

On  whose  strong  pinions  I  exalt  my  lay. 
What  from  contending  cities  did  he  gain  ? 

And  what  rewards  his  grateful  country  pay  ? 
None,  none  were  paid — why  then  all  this  for  me  ? 
These  honors,  Homer,  had  been  just  to  thee. 

Lady  Mary  writes  her  sister,  the  Countess  of  Mar, 
Letters  of  Lady  }n  Paris  from  Twickenham,  1720  : 

Mary  con- 

I  have  no  answer,  dear  sister,  to  a  long  letter  that  I  wrote 
you  a  month  ago  ;  however,  I  shall  continue  letting  you  know 
de  tevips  en  temps  what  passes  in  this  corner  of  the  world  till 
you  tell  me  'tis  disagreeable.  ...  I  pass  my  time  in  a 
small  snug  set  of  dear  intimates  and  go  very  little  into  the 
grand  inf>nde,  which  has  already  my  hearty  contempt.  I  see 
sometimes  Mr.  Congreve  and  very  seldom  Mr.  Pope,  who 
continues  to  embellish  his  house  at  Twickenham.  He  has 
made  a  subterranean  grotto,  which  he  has  furnished  with  look- 
ing glasses,  and  they  tell  me  it  has  a  very  good  effect.  I  here 
send  you  some  verses  addressed  to  Mr.  Gay,  who  wrote  him  a 
congratulatory  letter  on  the  finishing  of  his  house.  I  stifled 
them  here,  and  I  beg  they  may  die  the  same  death  in  Paris, 
and  never  go  further  than  your  closet. 

Ah  friend,  'tis  true — this  truth  you  lovers  know, 
In  vain  my  structures  rise,  my  gardens  grow, 
In  vain  fair  Thames  reflects  the  double  scenes 
Of  hanging  mountains  and  of  sloping  greens  : 
Joy  lives  not  here  ;  to  happier  seats  it  flies 
And  only  dwells  where  Wortley  casts  her  eyes. 

The   intercourse  between  Pope  and  Lady  Mary  was 
intercourse         marked  by  sentiment,    or  sentimentality,    on   his  side, 

between  Lady  .  ,         .    ,  . 

Mary  and  common  sense  on  hers,  as  the  following'  incident  illus- 

trates.    The    most   characteristic   of    Pope's   letters   is 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  37 


one  in  which  he  relates  something  that  he  had  seen  one 
day — a  thunder-storm  in  a  field.  The  lightning  struck 
two  rustic  lovers,  and  they  were  found  lying  dead  in 
each  other's  arms.  Pope  was  staying  with  Gay  at  the 
time,  and  he  wrote  down  the  incident  in  true  pastoral 
style  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Mary.  She  replied  by  a  cruel 
dose  of  common  sense,  with  the  addition  of  a  doggerel 
epitaph  turning  his  fine  phrases  into  ridicule. 

After  her  removal  to  Twickenham  the  intimacy  was 
continued.  He  got  Kneller  to  paint  her  portrait,  and  Close 

.  .  ....  intimacy. 

continued  to  write  adoring  letters.  But  the  spirit  of  a  cor- 
respondence which  did  very  well  between  Twickenham 
and  Constantinople  languished  when  the  parties  were  in 
the  same  parish,  and  in  time  the  tenderness,  if  it  ever 
really  existed,  changed  into  antipathy.  It  was  said  at  the 
time  that  the  poor  poet  once  forgot  himself  for  a  moment 
so  far  as  to  make  her  a  passionate  declaration  of  love, 
which  she  received  with  an  ' '  immoderate  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, ' '  after  which  he  was  forever  her  implacable  enemy.  Coolness. 

Pope  brooded  on  this  resentment,  and  years  after 
revenged  himself  in  one  of  his  poems  by  a  couplet  aimed 
chiefly  against  Lady  Mary.  She  retaliated  in  a  copy  of 
verses,  chieflv,  if  not  exclusively,  her  own,  in  which 

1-11-  i      i    r  Quarrel. 

Pope  is  brutally  taunted  with  his  personal  deformity. 
To  the  end  of  their  lives  the  two  people  once  so 
devoted  to  each  other  could  use  nothing  but  bitter 
epithets  in  speaking  each  of  the  other. 

After  Pope's  "  Dunciad "  appeared,  Lady  Mary 
amused  herself  by  the  following  bit  of  parody,  concern- 
ing the  grotto  previously  referred  to. 

THE  COURT  OF  DULXKSS.     A  FRAGMENT. 

Her  palace  plac'd  beneath  a  muddy  road, 
And  such  the  influence  of  her  dull  abode, 


38       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

The  carrier's  horse  above  can  scarcely  drag  his  load. 
Here  chose  the  goddess  her  belov'd  retreat, 
Which  Phoebus  tries  in  vain  to  penetrate  ; 
Adorned  within  with  shells  of  small  expense, 
(Emblems  of  tinsel  rhyme  and  trifling  sense), 
Perpetual  fogs  enclose  the  sacred  cave, 

Satire  on  the  The  neighboring  sinks  their  fragrant  odors  gave  ; 

Jrotto.enham  In  contemplation  here  she  passed  her  hours, 

Closely  attended  by  subservient  powers  ; 
Bold  profanation  with  a  brazen  brow, — 
Much  to  this  great  ally  doth  dulness  owe  ; 
But  still  more  near  the  goddess  you  attend, 
Naked  obscenity  !  her  darling  friend. 
To  thee  for  shelter  all  the  dull  still  fly, 
Pert  double  meanings  e'en  at  school  we  try, 
What  numerous  writers  owe  their  praise  to  thee, 
No  sex — no  age — is  from  thy  influence  free. 
By  thee,  how  bright  appears  the  senseless  song, 
By  thee  the  book  is  sold,  the  lines  are  strong, 
The  heaviest  poet,  by  thy  powerful  aid, 
Warms  the  brisk  youth,  and  charms  the  sprightly  maid  ; 
Where  breathes  the  mortal  who's  not  proved  thy  force 
In  well-bred  pun,  or  waiting-room  discourse  ? 

Lady  Mary  continued,  from  Twickenham  or  Cavendish 
Square,  to  write  amusing  letters  to  her  sister  in  Paris. 

I  was  very  glad  to  hear  from  you,  though  there  was  some- 
thing in  your  letters  very  monstrous  and  shocking  ;  I  wonder 
with  what  conscience  you  can  talk  to  me  of  your  being  an  old 
woman  ;  I  beg  I  may  hear  no  more  on't.  For  my  part  I  pre- 
tend to  be  as  young  as  ever,  and  really  am  as  young  as  needs 
to  be,  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  My  cure  for  lowness  of 
Cure  for  low  spirits  is  galloping  all  day,  and  a  moderate  glass  of  champagne 
at  night  in  good  company  ;  and  I  believe  this  regimen,  closely 
followed,  is  one  of  the  most  wholesome  that  can  be  prescribed, 
and  may  save  one  a  world  of  doctors'  fees  at  the  year's  end. 
I  rode  to  Twickenham  last  night,  and  after  so  long  a  stay  in 
town  am  not  sorry  to  find  myself  in  my  garden  ;  our  neighbor- 
hood is  something  improved  by  the  removal  of  some  old  maids 
and  the  arrival  of  some  fine  gentlemen.  Doctor  Swift  and 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  39 

Johnny  Gay  are  at  Pope's,  and  their  conjunction  has  produced 
a  ballad.     .     .     . 

Since  you  find  it  so  difficult  to  send  me  the  lutestring  that 
I  asked  for,  I  beg  you  would  lay  out  my  money  in  a  nightgown 
ready  made  ;  there  can  be  no  difficulty  in  sending  that  by  the 
first  person  that  comes  over.  I  shall  like  it  the  better  for  your 
having  worn  it  one  day,  and  then  it  may  be  answered  for  that  it 
is  not  new.  .  .  .  Apropos  of  ballads,  a  most  delightful  one  is 
.said  or  sung  in  most  houses  which  has  been  laid  first  to  Pope 
and  then  to  me,  when  God  knows  we  have  neither  of  us  wit 
enough  to  make  it. 

After  a  list  of  matches,  love-affairs,  and   matrimonial  society  gossip 
difficulties  in  society  she  adds  : 

This,  I  think,  is  the  whole  state  of  love  ;  as  to  that  of  wit, 
it  splits  itself  into  ten  thousand  branches  ;  poets  increase  and 
multiply  to  that  stupendous  degree  you  see  them  at  every  turn, 
even  in  embroidered  coats  and  pink-colored  top-knots  ;  making 
verses  is  become  almost  as  common  as  taking  snuff ;  no  one  can 
tell  what  miserable  stuff  people  carry  about  in  their  pockets  > 
and  offer  to  all  their  acquaintances,  and  you  know  one  cannot 
refuse  reading  and  taking  a  pinch.  This  is  a  very  great  griev- 
ance, and  so  particularly  shocking  to  me,  that  I  think  our  wise 
law-givers  should  take  it  into  consideration,  and  appoint  a  fast 
day  to  beseech  Heaven  to  put  a  stop  to  this  epidemical  disease, 
as  they  did  last  year  with  great  success. 

Adieu,  dear  sister,  pray  do  not  forget  the  nightgown,  and  let 
it  be  what  you  please. 

Twickenham,   October  20,  1723. 

I  am  very  sorry,  dear  sister,  that  you  are  in  so  melancholy  a 
way,  but  I  hope  a  return  to  Paris  will  revive  your  spirits.  I 
had  much  rather  have  said  London,  but  I  do  not  presume 
upon  so  much  happiness. 

As  for  news,  the  last  wedding  is  that  of  Peg  Pelham,  and 
I  have  never  seen  so  comfortable  a  prospect  of  happiness  ; 
according  to  all  appearances  she  cannot  fail  of  being  a  widow 
in  six  weeks  at  farthest,  and  accordingly  she  has  been  so  good 
a  housewife  as  to  line  her  wedding  clothes  in  black.  Assem- 
blies  rage  in  this  part  of  the  world  ;  there  is  not  a  street  in  rage. 
town  free  from  them  and  some  spirited  ladies  go  to  seven  in  a 


40      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

night.  You  need  not  question  but  love  and  play  flourish  under 
these  encouragements ;  I  now  and  then  peep  upon  these 
things  with  the  same  coolness  I  would  do  on  a  moving  picture. 
I  laugh  at  some  of  the  motions,  wonder  at  others,  and  then 
retire  to  the  elected  few  who  have  ears  to  hear,  but  mouths 
have  they  and  speak  not. 

Lady  Mary  was  born  in  1690,  and  this  was  written 
therefore  when  she  was  thirty-three.      She  goes  on  : 

My  life  passes  in  a  kind  of  indolence  which  is  now  and  then 
Description  of     awakened  by  agreeable  moments  ;  but  pleasures  are  transitory 

her  daily  life.  '  c 

and  the  groundwork  of  everything  m  England  stupidity, 
which  is  certainly  owing  to  the  coldness  of  this  vile  climate. 
Death  and  sickness  have  never  been  more  frequent  than  now. 
You  may  imagine  that  poor  gallantry  droops  ;  and  except  in 
the  Elysian  shades  of  Richmond  there  is  no  such  thing  as  love 
or  pleasure.  I  have  very  little  share  in  the  diversions  there, 
which,  except  seasoned  with  wit,  or  at  least  vivacity,  will  not 
go  down  with  me,  who  have  not  altogether  so  voracious  an 
appetite  as  I  once  had  ;  I  intend  however  to  shine  and  be  fine 
on  the  birth-night  and  review  the  figures  there. 

October  j/,  //^j. 

I  write  to  you  at  this  time  piping  hot  from  the  birth-night ; 
my  brain  warmed  with  all  the  agreeable  ideas  that  fine  clothes, 

Account  of  a        fine  gentlemen,  brisk  tunes,  and  lively  dances  can  raise  there, 
birth-night.  .    ° 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  my  letter  will  entertain  you  ;  at  least  you 
will  certainly  have  the  freshest  account  of  all  passages  on  that 
glorious  day.  First  you  must  know  that  I  led  up  the  ball, 
which  you'll  stare  at ;  but,  what  is  more,  I  believe  in  my  con- 
science I  made  one  of  the  best  figures  there  ;  to  say  truth, 
people  are  grown  so  extravagantly  ugly  that  we  old  beauties 
are  forced  to  come  out  on  show-days,  to  keep  the  court  in 
countenance.  .  .  .  This  is  the  general  state  of  affairs  ;  as  to 
particulars,  if  you  have  any  curiosity  for  things  of  that  kind, 
you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  ask  me  questions,  and  they 
shall  be  answered  to  the  best  of  my  understanding  ;  my  time 
never  being  passed  more  agreeably  than  when  I  am  doing 
something  obliging  to  you  ;  this  is  truth,  in  spite  of  all  the 
beans,  wits,  and  witlings  in  Great  Britain. 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  41 


Cavendish  Square,  1724. 

DEAR  SISTER  :  This  town  improves  in  gaiety  every  day,  the    *,  , 

&         J  J        •"  Entertani- 

young  people  are  younger  than  they  used  to  be,  and  all  the  old    mems  by  land 

are  grown  young.  Nothing  is  talked  of  but  entertainments  of 
gallantry  by  land  and  water,  and  we  insensibly  begin  to  taste  all 
the  joys  of  arbitrary  power.  Politics  are  no  more,  nobody 
pretends  to  winch  or  kick  under  their  burthens,  but  we  go  on 
cheerfully  with  our  bells  at  our  ears,  ornamented  with  ribbands 
and  highly  contented  with  our  present  conditions  ;  so  much  for 
the  general  state  of  the  nation.  The  last  pleasure  that  fell  in 
my  way  was  Madame  SeVigne^s  letters.  Very  pretty  they  are, 
but  I  assert,  without  the  least  vanity,  that  mine  will  be  full  as 
entertaining  forty  years  hence.  I  advise  you  therefore  to  put 
none  of  them  to  the  use  of  waste  paper. 


Cavendish  Square, 
.  .  .  I  cannot  deny  but  that  I  was  very  well  diverted  on 
the  coronation  day  [of  George  II.].  I  saw  the  procession  Gewge'n."  °f 
much  at  my  ease  in  a  house  which  I  filled  with  my  own 
company,  and  then  got  into  Westminster  Hall  without  trouble, 
where  it  was  very  entertaining  to  observe  the  variety  of  airs 
that  all  meant  the  same  thing.  The  business  of  every  walker 
there  was  to  conceal  vanity  and  gain  admiration.  For  these 
purposes  some  languished  and  others  strutted  ;  but  a  visible 
satisfaction  was  diffused  on  every  countenance,  as  soon  as  the 
coronet  was  clapped  on  the  head.  But  she  that  drew  the 
greatest  number  of  eyes  was  indisputably  Lady  Orkney.  She 
exposed  behind  a  mixture  of  fat  and  wrinkles,  and  before,  a 
very  considerable  protuberance  which  preceded  her.  Add  to 
this  the  inimitable  roll  of  her  eyes  and  her  gray  hairs,  which 
by  good  fortune  stood  directly  upright,  and  'tis  impossible  to 
imagine  a  more  delightful  spectacle.  She  had  embellished  all 
this  with  considerable  magnificence,  which  made  her  look  as 
big  again  as  usual  ;  and  I  should  have  thought  her  one  of  the 
largest  things  of  God's  making  if  my  Lady  St.  John  had  not 
displayed  all  her  charms  in  honor  of  the  day.  The  poor 
duchess  of  Montrose  crept  along  with  a  dozen  of  black  snakes 
playing  round  her  face,  and  my  Lady  Portland  (who  has  fallen 
away  since  her  dismission  from  court)  represented  very  finely 
an  Egyptian  mummy  embroidered  over  with  hieroglyphics. 
In  general,  I  could  not  perceive  but  that  the  old  were  as  well 


42       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

pleased  as  the  young  ;  and  I,  who  dread  growing  wise  more 
than  anything  in  the  world,  was  overjoyed  to  find  that  one  can 
never  outlive  one's  vanity. 

These   letters  are  chosen  from  the  many  written  by 

Lady  Mary  during  her  life  in  the  world  of  fashion  and 

literature.     In  1739  her  health  declined  and  she  took  the 

resolution  of  passing  the  remainder  of  her  days  on  the 

Life  in  Continent,  with  the   full   assent  of  Mr.   Wortley,   with 

Southern 

Europe.  whom,  moreover,  she  kept  up  a  continuous  correspon- 

dence until  his  death  in  1761.  During  all  this  time  she 
remained  in  the  southern  part  of  Europe,  writing  always 
most  amusing  and  entertaining  letters  about  everything 
she  saw.  Her  accounts  of  the  manner  of  living  in 
Venice,  at  Louvere,  or  at  Geneva,  show  as  great  a 
difference  from  that  of  the  present  day  as  her  English 
ones  do,  but  it  is  not  so  much  within  our  subject  to  dwell 
on  these  points,  however  amusing.  On  the  Lake  of  Isco 
she  took  possession  of  a  deserted  palace  ;  she  planned 
her  garden,  applied  herself  to  the  business  of  a  country 
life,  and  was  happy  in  the  superintendence  of  her  vine- 
yards and  silk-worms.  English  books,  sent  her  by  her 
daughter,  Lady  Bute,  supplied  the  deficiency  of  society, 
and  she  appears  to  have  enjoyed  most  sincerely  her 
repose  from  the  occupations  of  the  gay  world.  To  Mr. 
Wortley  she  writes  in  1748  : 

I  am  very  much  pleased  that  you  accustom  yourself  to  tea, 
being  persuaded  that  the  moderate  use  of  it  is  generally  whole- 
some. I  have  planted  a  great  deal  in  my  garden,  which  is  a 
fashion  lately  introduced  in  this  country,  and  has  succeeded 
very  well.  I  cannot  say  it  is  as  strong  as  the  Indian,  but  it  has 
the  advantage  of  being  fresher,  and  is  at  least  unmixed. 

Lad\-  Marv's  After  an    absence   of   twenty-two  years,   Lady  Mary 

^'"T"  l?  returned  to  England,  arriving  in  October,  but  her  health 

ELngianu. 

had  suffered  much  and  a  gradual  decline  terminated  in 


Pope  and  Lady  Mary.  43 

death  on  the  2ist  of  August,  1762,  and  in  the  seventy-   Her  death, 
third  year  of  her  age. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Works  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu.  Moy  Thomas. 
(Bohn,  1861.) 

Alexander  Pope.  Leslie  Stephen.  (Morley's  Men  of  Letters 
Series. ) 

Pope's  Complete  Works. 

Smith's  Smaller  History  of  English  Literature.  James 
Rowley,  M.A.  (London.) 

Walks  in  London.  A.  J.  C.  Hare.  (Latest  revised  edition, 
1894,  London. ) 

Compendium  of  English  History.     A.  B.  Edwards. 


BOOK  II. 
CHARLOTTE  LENNOX. 

CHAPTER  V. 

AMONG  the  literary  names  preserved  by  Boswell  and 
Horace  Walpole,  says  Chambers' s  Encyclopaedia,  is  that 
of  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox  (1720-1804).  The  first 
novel  of  this  lady  was  celebrated  with  a  sumptuous  sup- 
per at  the  Devil's  Tavern,  where  Dr.  Johnson  invested 
crowne^by^r.  the  authoress  with  a  crown  of  laurel.  Until  1788 
existed  the  famous  Devil's  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street,  with 
the  sign  of  St.  Dunstan  and  the  Devil,  where  the  Royal 
Society  held  its  dinners,  and  where  the  Apollo  Club 
held  its  meetings,  guided  by  poetical  rules  of  Ben  Jon- 
son  which  began  : 

Let  none  but  guests  or  clubbers  hither  come  ; 
Let  dunces,  fools,  and  sordid  men  keep  home  ; 
Let  learned,  civil,  merry  men  b'  invited 
And  modest  too  ;  nor  be  choice  liquor  slighted. 
Let  nothing  in  the  treat  offend  the  guest ; 
More  for  delight  than  cost  prepare  the  feast. 

She  wrote  several  novels,  and  some  comedies,  com- 
piled and  translated  other  works,  probably  for  the  sake 
Her  works.  of  the  money  she  could  earn  by  them.  Her  name  would 
hardly  survive  to  this  day  but  that  Mrs.  Barbauld  allowed 
her  a  place  in  her  excellent  edition  of  the  "British 
Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  published  in  1800, 
a  collection  without  which  I  should  be  lost  in  the  pur- 
suit of  my  favorite  old  books.  Mrs.  Barbauld  says  that 
Mrs.  Lennox,  "a  very  respectable  writer,  born  at  New 


Charlotte  Lennox.  45 


York,  was  a  diligent  and  successful  author.  Her  exer- 
tions did  not  place  her  in  easy  circumstances,  for  she 
died  poor  in  1804." 

Lady  Mary  Wortley,  a  voracious  reader  of  "all  the 
novels  that  had  been  invented  ' '  in  her  time,  speaks  of 
one  and  another  of  her  books  as  they  appear  with 
friendly  comment,  but  under  the  impression  that  they 
were  written  by  her  cousin,  Sally  Fielding,  the  sister  of 
the  brilliant  author  of  ' '  Tom  Tones. ' '  Lady  Mary  says  :  Ladv  Mary's 

comment. 

"  The  Art  of  Tormenting  "  and  "  The  Female  Quixote  "  are 
sale  work.  I  suppose  they  proceed  from  her  pen,  and  I 
heartily  pity  her,  constrained  by  her  circumstances  to  seek  her 
bread  by  a  method  I  do  not  doubt  she  despises.  She  has 
mended  her  style  in  the  last  volume  of  "  David  Simple,"  which 
conveys  a  useful  moral,  though  she  does  not  seem  to  have 
intended  it. 

"David  Simple"  is  such  a  "dreadful"  stupid  book 
that  I  myself  have  never  succeeded  in  reaching  the 
third  volume. 

There  is  a  slight  reference  to  Charlotte  Lennox  in 

Miss  Burney's 

ranny  Burney  s  diary  of  August  26,  1778  :  reference. 

Dr.  Johnson  gave  us  an  account  of  Mrs.  Lennox.  Her 
"Female  Quixote"  is  very  justly  admired  here.  But  Mrs. 
Thrale  says  that  though  her  books  are  generally  approved, 
nobody  likes  her.  I  find  she,  among  others,  waited  on  Dr. 
Johnson  upon  her  commencing  writing,  and  he  told  us  that  at 
her  request  he  carried  her  to  Richardson.  "Poor  Charlotte 
Lennox!"  continued  he.  "When  we  came  to  the  house  she 
desired  me  to  leave  her;  'for,'  says  she,  'I  am  under  great 
restraint  in  your  presence  ;  but  if  you  leave  me  alone  with 
Richardson,  I'll  give  you  a  very  good  account  of  him.'  How- 
ever, I  fear  she  was  disappointed,  for  she  gave  me  no  account 
at  all." 

Poor  Charlotte's  "Sophia,"    "Henrietta,"   etc.,  are 
absolute  rubbish,  but  the  "Female  Quixote,"  published  Qufiotef™*1* 
in  1752,  and  perpetuated  by  Mrs.  Barbauld,  is  precious 


46       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

for  preserving  to  the  world  the  best  impression  we  have 
of  what  the  old,  old  romances  of  the  Calprenede  and 
Scudery  school  really  were  ;  sparing  us  an  effort  which 
even  I  am  incapable  of — that  is,  wading  through  the 
black  volumes  like  those  beloved  of  the  old  nurse  in  the 
Wortley  family,  and  even  of  Lady  Mary  herself  and  her 
contemporaries. 

It  is  an  agreeable  and  ingenious  satire  upon  the  old 

romances,  and  I  really  think  it  is  written  in  a  modern 

Account  of  the     spirit,  and  that  Arabella,   the  heroine,  has  more  good 

heroine.  .  . 

stuff  in  her  than  other  imaginary  ladies  of  the  time 
who  have  been  more  praised.  She  is  supposed  to 
have  been  brought  up  in  the  country  and  secluded 
from  all  society,  but  allowed  to  amuse  herself  in  an  old 
library  furnished  with  the  works  of  these  voluminous 
authors.  Of  course  she  imbibes  their  views  of  life, 
and  when  she  comes  out  into  the  world,  possessed  of 
beauty  and  fortune,  it  is  with  a  pronounced  ignorance 
of  every  circumstance  of  real  life  and  manners.  She 
fancies  every  man  who  speaks  to  her  to  be  secretly  in 
love  with  her,  and  is  in  constant  apprehension  of  being 
forcibly  carried  off. 

The  extracts  I  shall  give  are  those  which  throw 
light  upon  the  style  of  the  older  books,  and,  condensed 
as  these  extracts  are,  I  am  sure  they  will  sufficiently 
impress  the  reader  with  a  sense  of  their  dulness,  a 
dulness  from  which  Mrs.  Lennox  in  a  measure  rescued 
her  readers  by  the  vivacity  of  her  heroine,  who  seems 
modern  by  contrast.  The  disadvantage  of  her  book, 
as  Mrs.  Barbauld  already  observes,  is  that  the  satire 
has  now  no  object.  She  says  : 

Most  young  ladies  of  the  present  day,  instead  of  requiring  to 
be  cured  of  reading  those  bulky  romances,  would  acquire  the 
first  information  of  their  manner  (and  we  may  now  say  of 


Charlotte  Lennox.  47 


their  existence)    from  the   work  designed  to  ridicule    them. 
Mrs.  Barbauld  adds  : 

The  style  of  Mrs.  Lennox  is  easy,  but  it  does  not  rise  to  the 
elegance  attained  by  many,  more  modern,  female  writers. 

"Henrietta"  begins  with  the  incident  of  two  young  , 

0  J      .    c     "Henrietta. 

ladies,  who  are  perfect  strangers  to  each  other,  meeting 
in  a  stage  coach,  when  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation 
one  of  them  exclaims,  ' '  Let  us  swear  an  eternal  friend- 
ship"— the  words  taken  from  the  "Anti-Jacobin,"  a 
satire,  well  known  in  its  time,  upon  the  sentimental 
German  plays  of  Kotzebue  and  others.  "Henrietta"  is 
agreeably  absurd,  but  not  worth  preserving. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Marquis  of ,  for  a  long  series  of  years,  was  the 

first  and  most  distinguished  favorite  at  court  ;  he  held  the  most 
Beginning  of  honorable  employments  under  the  crown,  disposed  of  all  places 
"T*16  Fe™ale  of  profit  as  he  pleased,  presided  at  the  council,  and,  in  a  man- 
ner, governed  the  whole  kingdom.  This  extensive  authority 
could  not  fail  of  making  him  many  enemies  ;  he  fell  at  last  a 
sacrifice  to  the  plots  they  were  continually  forming  against  him  ; 
and  was  not  only  removed  from  all  his  employments,  but  ban- 
ished the  court  forever.  The  pain  his  undeserved  disgrace  gave 
him  he  was  enabled  to  conceal  by  the  natural  haughtiness  of 
his  temper  ;  and,  behaving  rather  like  a  man  who  had  resigned 
than  been  dismissed  from  his  post,  he  imagined  he  triumphed 
sufficiently  over  the  malice  of  his  enemies,  while  he  seemed  to 
be  wholly  insensible  of  the  effects  it  produced.  His  secret  dis- 
content, however,  was  so  much  augmented  by  the  opportunity 
he  now  had  of  observing  the  baseness  and  ingratitude  of  man- 
kind, which  in  some  degree  he  experienced  every  day,  that  he 
resolved  to  quit  all  society  whatever,  and  devote  the  rest  of  his 
life  to  solitude  and  privacy.  For  the  place  of  his  retreat  he 
pitched  upon  a  castle  he  had  in  a  very  remote  province  of  the 
kingdom,  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  small  village,  and  several 
miles  distant  from  any  town.  The  vast  extent  of  ground 
which  surrounded  this  noble  building  he  had  caused  to  be  laid 
out  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  his  taste  ;  the  most  laborious 
endeavors  of  art  had  been  used  to  make  it  appear  like  the 
beautiful  product  of  wild  uncultivated  nature.  But  if  this 
epitome  of  Arcadia  could  boast  of  only  artless  and  simple 
beauties,  the  inside  of  the  castle  was  adorned  with  a  magnifi- 
cence suitable  to  the  dignity  and  immense  riches  of  the  owner. 

Arabella's  Here  was  Arabella  born,  and,  after  the  early  death  of 

birth. 

her  mother,  grew  up  in  solitude  except  for  the  com- 
panionship of  the  marquis. 

Nature  had,  indeed,  given  her  a  most  charming  face,  a  shape 

48 


Charlotte  Lennox,  49 


easy  and  delicate,  a  sweet  and  insinuating  voice,  and  an  air  so 
full  of  dignity  and  grace  as  drew  the  admiration  of  all  that  saw 
her.  These  native  charms  were  improved  with  all  the  height- 
enings  of  art ;  her  dress  was  perfectly  magnificent,  the  best 
masters  of  music  and  dancing  were  sent  for  from  London  to 
attend  her.  She  soon  became  a  perfect  mistress  of  the  French 
and  Italian  languages,  under  the  care  of  her  father  ;  and  it  is 
not  to  be  doubted  but  she  would  have  made  a  great  proficiency 
in  all  useful  knowledge  had  not  her  whole  time  been  taken  up 
by  another  study. 

From  her  earliest  youth  she  had  discovered  a  fondness  for 
reading,  which  extremely  delighted  the  marquis  ;  he  permitted 
her,  therefore,  the  use  of  his  library,  in  which,  unfortunately  for 
her,  were  great  store  of  romances  and,  what  was  still  more 
unfortunate,  not  in  the  original  French,  but  very  bad  transla- 
tions. 

The  deceased  marchioness  had  purchased  these  books  to 

soften  a  solitude  which  she  found  very  disagreeable  ;  and  after   French 

...      romances, 
her  death  the  marquis  removed  them  from  her  closet  into  his 

library,  where  Arabella  found  them.  The  surprising  adven- 
tures with  which  they  were  filled  proved  a  most  pleasing  enter- 
tainment to  a  young  lady  who  was  wholly  secluded  from  the 
world,  who  had  no  other  diversion  but  ranging  like  a  nymph 
through  gardens,  or,  to  say  better,  the  woods  and  lawns  in 
which  she  was  enclosed ;  and  who  had  no  other  conversation 
but  that  of  a  grave  and  melancholy  father,  or  her  own  atten- 
dants. 

Her  ideas,  from  the  manner  of  her  life  and  the  objects 
around  her,  had  taken  a  romantic  turn ;  and,  supposing  flf^1timental 
romances  were  real  pictures  of  life,  from  them  she  drew  all  her 
notions  and  expectations.  By  them  she  was  taught  to  believe 
that  love  was  the  ruling  principle  of  the  world  ;  that  every  other 
passion  was  subordinate  to  this  ;  and  that  it  caused  all  the 
happiness  and  miseries  of  life.  Her  glass,  which  she  often 
consulted,  always  showed  her  a  form  so  extremely  lovely  that, 
not  finding  herself  engaged  in  such  adventures  as  were  common 
to  the  heroines  in  the  romances  she  read,  she  often  complained 
of  the  insensibility  of  mankind,  upon  whom  her  charms  seemed 
to  have  so  little  influence. 

The  perfect  retirement  she  lived  in  afforded,  indeed,  no 
opportunities  of  making  the  conquests  she  desired,  but  she 


50      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

could  not  comprehend  how  any  solitude  could  be  obscure 
enough  to  conceal  a  beauty  like  hers  from  notice  ;  and  thought 
the  reputation  of  her  charms  sufficient  to  bring  a  crowd  of 
adorers  to  demand  her  of  her  father.  Her  mind  being  wholly 
filled  with  the  most  extravagant  expectations,  she  was  alarmed 
by  every  trifling  incident ;  and  kept  in  a  continual  anxiety  by  a 
vicissitude  of  hopes  and  fears. 

This  chapter  contains  a  description  of  a  tody's  dress  in  fashion 
not  much  above  two  thousand  years  ago.  The  beginning  of 
an  adventure  which  seems  to  promise  a  great  deal. 

Arabella  had  now  entered  into  her  seventeenth  year,  with 

the  regret  of  seeing  herself  the  object  of  admiration  to  a  few 
Arabella  at  ^-iuu  A    *  u  c      A 

church.  rustics  only,  who  happened  to  see  her  ;  when,  one  Sunday, 

making  use  of  the  permission  the  marquis  sometimes  allowed 
her  to  attend  divine  service  at  the  church  belonging  to  the 
village  near  which  they  lived,  her  vanity  was  flattered  with  an 
adorer  not  altogether  unworthy  of  her  notice. 

This  gentleman  was  young,  gay,  handsome,  and  very  ele- 
gantly dressed  :  he  was  just  come  from  London  with  the  inten- 
tion to  pass  some  weeks  with  a  friend  in  that  part  of  the 
The  London  country  ;  and  at  the  time  Arabella  entered  the  church,  his 
eyes,  which  had  wandered  from  one  rural  fair  to  another,  were 
in  an  instant  fixed  upon  her  face.  She  blushed  with  a  very 
becoming  modesty  ;  and,  pleased  with  the  unusual  appearance 
of  so  fine  a  gentleman,  and  the  particular  notice  he  took  of  her, 
passed  on  to  her  seat  through  a  double  row  of  country  people, 
who,  with  a  profusion  of  awkward  bows  and  curtsies,  expressed 
their  respect.  Mr.  Hervey,  for  that  was  the  stranger's  name, 
was  no  less  surprised  at  her  beauty  than  the  singularity  of  her 
dress,  and  the  odd  whim  of  being  followed  into  the  church  by 
three  women  attendants,  who,  as  soon  as  she  was  seated,  took 
their  places  behind  her.  Her  dress,  though  singular,  was  far 
from  being  unbecoming.  All  the  beauties  of  her  neck  and 
shape  were  set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  by  the  fashion  of 
her  gown,  which,  in  the  manner  of  a  robe,  was  made  to  sit 
tight  to  her  body  and  fastened  on  the  breast  by  a  knot  of  dia- 
monds. Her  fine  black  hair  hung  upon  her  neck  in  curls,  which 
had  so  much  the  appearance  of  being  artless  that  all  but  her 
maid,  whose  employment  it  was  to  give  them  that  form,  imag- 


Charlotte  Lennox.  51 

ined  they  were  so.  Her  head-dress  was  only  a  few  knots, 
advantageously  disposed,  over  which  she  wore  a  white  sarsenet 
hood,  somewhat  in  the  form  of  a  veil,  with  which  she  some- 
times wholly  covered  her  fair  face  when  she  saw  herself  beheld 
with  too  much  attention. 

This  veil  had  never  appeared  to  her  so  necessary  before. 
Mr.  Hervey's  eager  glances  threw  her  into  so  much  confusion,  Singular 

,.,«...  i          /•  i  1  i_i          1         demeanor  of 

that  pulling  it  over  her  face  as  much  as  she  was  able,  she  Arabella. 
remained  invisible  to  him  all  the  time  that  they  afterward 
stayed  in  the  church.  This  action,  by  which  she  would  have 
had  him  understand  that  she  was  displeased  at  his  gazing  on 
her  with  so  little  respect,  only  increased  his  curiosity  to  know 
who  she  was.  When  the  congregation  was  dismissed,  he 
hastened  to  the  door,  with  an  intention  to  offer  her  his  hand  to 
help  her  to  her  coach  ;  but  seeing  the  magnificent  equipage 
that  waited  for  her,  and  the  number  of  servants  that  attended 
it,  he  conceived  a  much  higher  idea  of  her  quality  than  he  had 
at  first ;  and,  changing  his  design,  contented  himself  with  only 
bowing  to  her  as  she  passed  ;  and  as  soon  as  her  coach  drove 
away,  inquired  of  some  person  nearest  him  who  she  was. 

Mr.  Hervey,  although  amazed,  was  quite  inclined  to   surprise  of  Mr. 
fall  seriously  in  love  with  the  lady. 

Arabella  in  the  meantime  was  wholly  taken  up  with  the 
adventure,  as  she  called  it,  at  church  ;  the  person  and  dress  of 
the  gentleman  who  had  so  particularly  gazed  on  her  there 
was  so  different  from  what  she  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
that  she  immediately  concluded  he  was  of  some  distinguished 
rank.  It  was  past  a  doubt,  she  thought,  that  he  was  ex- 
cessively in  love  with  her ;  and,  as  she  soon  expected  to  have 
some  very  extraordinary  proofs  of  his  passion,  her  thoughts 
were  wholly  employed  on  the  manner  in  which  she  should 
receive  them. 

As  soon  as  she  came  home  and  had  paid  her  duty  to  the 
marquis  she  hurried  to  her  chamber  to  be  at  liberty  to  indulge 
her  agreeable  reflections ;  and,  after  the  example  of  our 
heroines,  when  anything  extraordinary  happened  to  them, 
called  her  favorite  woman,  or,  to  use  her  own  language,  her  in 
whom  she  confided  her  most  secret  thoughts. 

"Well.  Lucv."  said  she,  "did  you  observe  that  stranger  who    Conversation 

>j  i      "jr   11        <.     i          i    .       i        in  with  Lucy. 

ev  a  us  so  needfully  at  church  to-day  ? 


52       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

This  girl,  notwithstanding  her  country  simplicity,  knew  a 
compliment  was  expected  from  her  on  this  occasion,  and  there- 
fore replied  that  she  did  not  wonder  at  the  gentleman's  staring 
at  her  ;  for  she  was  sure  he  had  never  seen  anybody  so  hand- 
some as  her  ladyship  before. 

"I  have  not  all  the  beauty  which  you  attribute  to  me,"  said 
Arabella,  smiling  a  little  ;  "and  with  a  very  moderate  share  of 
it  I  might  well  fix  the  attention  of  a  person  who  seemed  not  to 
be  over  much  pleased  with  the  objects  about  him.  However," 
pursued  she,  assuming  a  more  serious  air,  "if  this  stranger  be 
weak  enough  to  entertain  any  sentiments  more  than  indifferent 
for  me,  I  charge  you  upon  pain  of  my  displeasure,  do  not  be 
accessory  to  the  conveying  his  presumptuous  thoughts  to  me, 
either  by  letters  or  messages,  nor  suffer  him  to  corrupt  your 
fidelity  with  the  presents  he  will  very  probably  offer  you." 

Mr.  Hervey  Mr.  Hervey,  after  a  few  attempts  at  correspondence, 

gave  up  all  idea  of  a  conquest,  and  an  accident  which 
brought  her  in  his  way  again  concluded  the  adventure. 

The  marquis  sometimes  permitting  his  daughter  to  ride  out, 
and  this  being  the  only  diversion  she  was  allowed  or  ever  ex- 
perienced, she  did  not  fail  to  take  it  as  often  as  she  could.  She 
was  returning  from  one  of  these  airings  one  day,  attended  by 
two  servants,  when  Mr.  Hervey,  who  happened  to  be  at  some 
distance,  observing  a  lady  on  horseback  who  made  a  very 
graceful  figure,  he  rode  up  to  her  in  order  to  have  a  nearer 
view  ;  and  knowing  Lady  Bella  again,  resolved  to  speak  to 
her  :  but  while  he  was  considering  how  he  should  accost  her, 
Arabella  suddenly  seeing  him  and  observing  he  was  making 
up  to  her,  her  imagination  immediately  suggested  to  her  that 
this  insolent  lover  had  a  design  to  seize  her  person  ;  and  this 
thought  terrifying  her  extremely,  she  gave  a  loud  shriek,  which 
Mr.  Hervey  hearing,  rode  eagerly  up  to  her  to  inquire  the 
reason  of  it,  at  the  same  time  that  her  two  attendants,  as  much 
amazed  as  himself,  came  galloping  up  also. 

Arabella,  upon  his  coming  close  up  to  her,  redoubled  her 
The  adventure.  crjes  «  jf  you  ]lave  any  va]OI-;"  sajcl  sile  to  hcr  servants, 

"defend  your  unfortunate  mistress  and  rescue  her  from  this 
unworthy  man." 
The  servants,  believing  him   to  be  a  highwayman  by  this 


Charlotte  Lennox.  53 


exclamation,  and  dreading  lest  he  should  present  a  pistol  at 
their  heads  if  they  offered  to  make  any  resistance,  recoiled  a 
few  paces  back,  expecting  he  would  demand  their  purses  when 
he  had  robbed  their  lady,  but  the  extreme  surprise  he  was  in 
keeping  him  motionless,  the  fellows  not  seeing  any  pistols  in 
his  hand,  and  animated  by  Arabella's  cries,  who,  calling  them 
cowards  and  traitors,  urged  them  to  deliver  her,  they  both  in  a 
moment  laid  hold  of  Mr.  Hervey  and  forced  him  to  alight, 
which  they  did  also  themselves,  still  keeping  fast  hold  of  him, 
whom  surprise,  shame,  and  rage  had  hitherto  kept  silent. 

"  Rascals,"  cried  he,  when  he  was  able  to  speak,  "  what  do 
you  mean  by  using  me  in  this  manner  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  had 
any  intention  to  hurt  the  lady  ?  What  do  you  take  me  for  ? " 

"For  a  ravisher,"  interrupted  Arabella;  "an  impious  rav- 
isher  !  who,  contrary  to  all  laws,  both  human  and  divine,  en- 
deavor to  possess  yourself  by  force  of  a  person  whom  you  are 
not  worthy  to  serve,  and  whose  charity  and  compassion  you 
have  returned  with  the  utmost  ingratitude." 

Mr.    Hervey  was  very  naturally  furious  at  being  so  surrenderor 
treated,   but   beginning  to  reflect  that  carrying  off  an   thehanser- 
heiress  was  no  joke,  he  controlled  himself  and  delivered 
his  ' '  hanger  ' '  to  the  servant,  while  he  assured  her  that 
he  had  no  evil  designs.      Said  Arabella,  sternly  : 

"Add  not  falsehood  to  a  crime  already  black  enough  ;  for 
though  by  an  effort  of  my  generosity  I  have  resolved  not  to 
deliver  you  up  to  the  resentment  of  my  father,  yet  nothing 
shall  ever  be  able  to  make  me  pardon  this  outrage.  Go,  then," 
pursued  she  ;  "  go,  base  man,  unworthy  of  the  care  I  took  for 
thy  safety  ;  go  to  some  distant  country  where  I  may  never  hear 
of  thee  more,  and  suffer  me  if  possible  to  lose  the  remem- 
brance of  thy  crimes." 

Saying  this,  she  ordered  her  servants,  who  had  yet  the 
hanger  in  their  possession,  to  set  him  at  liberty  and  mount 
their  horses,  which  they  did  immediately,  and  followed  their 
lady,  who  rode  with  all  imaginable  speed  to  the  castle. 

Mr.    Hervey  took  himself  away   from   the  neighbor-    Mr  Hervey 
hood  and  back  to  London  as  fast  as  possible.      He  was    Lo?idon.f01 
now  out  of  the  scrape  and  is  soon  out  of  the  book. 


54      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Other  incidents  of  a  like  nature  occurred,  but  Arabella  had 
scarce  done  thinking  of  these  adventures  when  the  marquis 
communicated  a  piece  of  intelligence  to  her  which  opened  a 
prospect  of  an  infinite  number  of  new  ones. 

His  nephew,  having  just  returned  from  his  travels,  was 
admirer  preparing  to  come  and  pay  him  a  visit  in  his  retreat ;  and,  as 

he  always  designed  to  marry  Arabella  to  this  youth,  of  whom 
he  was  extremely  fond,  he  told  his  daughter  of  the  intended 
visit  of  her  cousin,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  she  was  eight 
years  old ;  and  for  the  first  time  insinuated  his  design  of 
giving  him  to  her  for  an  husband. 

Arabella,  whose  delicacy  was  extremely  shocked  by  this 
abrupt  declaration  of  her  father,  could  hardly  hide  her  cha- 
grin, for  though  she  always  intended  to  marry  some  time  or 
other,  as  all  the  heroines  had  done,  yet  she  thought  such  an 
event  ought  to  be  brought  about  with  an  infinite  deal  of 
trouble  ;  and  that  it  was  necessary  she  should  pass  to  this  state 
through  a  great  number  of  cares,  disappointments,  and  dis- 
tresses of  various  kinds  like  them  ;  that  her  lover  should 
purchase  her  with  his  sword  from  a  crowd  of  rivals,  and  arrive 
to  the  possession  of  her  heart  by  many  years  of  service  and 
fidelity. 

The  impropriety  of  receiving  a  lover  of  her  father's  recom- 

The  admirer        mending   appeared   in  its  strongest   light.     What  lady  in  ro- 
proves  a  lover.  .  &  J 

mance  ever  married  the  man  who  was  chosen  lor  her?    In 

those  cases  the  remonstrances  of  a  parent  are  called  persecu- 
tions ;  obstinate  resistance,  constancy  and  courage ;  and  an 
aptitude  to  dislike  the  person  proposed  to  them,  a  noble  free- 
dom of  mind  which  disdains  to  love  or  hate  by  the  caprice  of 
others. 

Arabella,  strengthening  her  own  resolutions  by  those  ex- 
amples of  heroic  disobedience,  told  her  father,  with  great 
solemnity  of  accent,  that  she  would  always  obey  him  in  all  just 
and  reasonable  things  ;  and  being  persuaded  that  he  would 
never  attempt  to  lay  any  force  upon  her  inclinations,  she 
would  endeavor  to  make  them  conformable  to  his,  and  receive 
her  cousin  with  that  civility  and  friendship  due  to  so  near  a 
Approbation  of  relation  and  a  person  whom  he  honored  with  his  esteem. 

the  marquis.  _,  .,..,- 

The  marquis,  having  had  frequent  occasions  ol  admiring  his 
daughter's  eloquence,  did  not  draw  any  unpleasing  conclusion 
from  the  nice  distinctions  she  made,  and  being  perfectly 


Charlotte  Lennox.  55 


assured  of  her  consent  whenever  he  demanded  it,  expected 
the  arrival  of  his  nephew  with  great  impatience. 

Arabella,  whose  thoughts  had  been  fully  employed  since  this 
conversation  with  her  father,  was  indulging  her  meditations  in 
one  of  the  most  retired  walks  of  the  garden  when  she  was 
informed  by  Lucy  that  her  cousin  was  come  and  that  the  mar- 
quis had  brought  him  into  the  garden  to  look  for  her.  That 
instant  they  both  entered  the  walk,  when  Arabella,  prepos- 
sessed as  she  was  against  any  favorable  thoughts  of  the  young 
Glanville,  could  not  help  betraying  some  surprise  at  the  grace- 
fulness of  his  figure.  "  It  must  be  confessed,"  said  she  to  her 
attendant  with  a  smile,  "  that  this  lover  my  father  has  brought 
us  is  no  contemptible  person  ;  nevertheless  I  feel  an  invin- 
cible repugnance  in  myself  against  receiving  him  in  that  char- 
acter." 

As  she  finished  these  words  the  marquis  came  up  and  pre- 
sented Mr.  Glanville  to  her,  who,  saluting  her  with  the  freedom  addresses, 
of  a  relation,  gave  her  a  disgust  which  showed  itself  immedi- 
ately in  her  fair  face,  which  was  overspread  with  such  a  gloom 
that  the  marquis  was  quite  astonished  at  it.  Indeed,  Arabella, 
who  expected  he  would  hardly  have  presumed  to  kiss  her 
hand,  was  so  surprised  at  his  freedom  in  attempting  her  lips 
that  she  not  only  expressed  her  indignation  by  frowns,  but 
gave  him  to  understand  he  had  mortally  offended  her.  Mr. 
Glanville,  however,  was  neither  surprised  nor  angry  at  her 
resentment ;  but,  imputing  it  to  her  country  education,  en- 
deavored to  rally  her  out  of  her  ill  humor ;  and  the  marquis, 
being  glad  to  find  a  behavior  which  he  thought  proceeded  from 
a  dislike  of  her  cousin  was  only  an  effect  of  an  over-scrupulous 
modesty,  told  her  that  Mr.  Glanville  had  committed  no  offense 
by  saluting  her,  since  that  was  a  civility  which  was  granted  to 
all  strangers  at  a  first,  interview,  and  therefore  could  not  be 
refused  to  a  relation. 

"  Since  the  world  is  so  degenerated  in  its  customs  to  what  it 
was  formerly,"  said  Arabella  with  a  smile  full  of  contempt  ^"j^"3'3 
upon  her  cousin,  "I  am  extremely  happy  to  have  lived  in  a 
solitude  which  has  not  yet  exposed  me  to  the  mortification  of 
being  a  witness  to  manners  which  I  cannot  approve  ;  for  if 
every  person  I  shall  meet  with  for  the  future  be  so  deficient  in 
their  respect  to  ladies  as  my  cousin  is,  I  shall  not  care  how 
much  I  am  excluded  from  society." 


56       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 

"But,  dear  Lady  Bella,"  interrupted  Mr.  Glanville  gaily, 
"tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  how  I  must  behave  to  please  you,  for 
I  should  be  extremely  glad  to  be  honored  with  your  good 
opinion." 

"The  person,"  resumed  she,  "whom  I  must  teach  how  to 
acquire  my  good  opinion  will,  I  am  afraid,  hardly  recompense 
me  by  his  docility  in  learning  for  the  pains  I  should  be  at  in 
instructing  him." 

"But,"  resumed  Glanville,  "that  I  may  avoid  any  more 
occasions  of  offending  you,  only  let  me  know  how  you  would 
be  approached  for  the  future." 

"Since,"  answered  she,  "there  is  no  necessity  to  renew  the 
ceremony  of  introducing  you  again  to  me,  I  have  not  a  second 
affront  of  that  kind  to  apprehend  ;  but  I  pray  tell  me  if  all 
cavaliers  are  as  presuming  as  yourself;  and  if  a  relation  of 
your  sex  does  not  think  a  modest  embrace  from  a  lady  a  wel- 
come sufficiently  tender  ? " 

Custom  of  The  heroines,  though  they  think  a  kiss  of  the  hand  a 

the  heroines.  great  condescension  to  a  man,  and  never  grant  it  with- 
out blushes  and  confusion,  yet  make  no  scruple  to  em- 
brace him  upon  every  short  absence. 

"Nay,  cousin,"  cried  Glanville  eagerly,  "I  am  now  per- 
suaded that  you  are  in  the  right.  An  embrace  is  certainly  to 
be  preferred  to  a  cold  salute.  What  would  I  give  that  the 
marquis  would  introduce  me  a  second  time,  that  I  might  be 
received  with  so  delightful  a  welcome  !  " 

The  vivacity  with  which  he  spoke  this  was  so  extremely 
disagreeable  to  Arabella  that  she  turned  from  him  abruptly, 
and,  striking  into  another  walk,  ordered  Lucy  to  tell  him  she 
commanded  him  not  to  follow  her. 

Mr.  Glanville,  however,  who  had  no  notion  of  the  exact 
obedience  which  was  expected  from  him,  would  have  gone 
after  her,  notwithstanding  this  prohibition,  which  Lucy  de- 
livered in  a  most  peremptory  manner,  after  her  lady's  ex- 
ample, but  the  marquis,  who  had  left  the  young  people  to 
discourse,  and  had  walked  on,  that  he  might  not  interrupt 
them,  turning  about  and  seeing  Glanville  alone,  called  him  to 
have  some  private  discourse  \vith  him. 


Charlotte  Lennox. 


57 


In  this  chapter  a  lover  is  severely  punished  for  faults  which  the 
reader  never  would  have  discovered  if  he  had  not  been  told. 

The  marquis,  having  studied  his  nephew's  looks  several 
days,  thought  he  saw  inclination  enough  in  them  for  Arabella 
to  make  him  receive  the  knowledge  of  his  intention  with  joy  ; 
he  therefore  called  him  into  his  closet,  and  told  him,  in  a  few 
words,  that,  if  his  heart  was  not  preengaged  and  his  daughter 
capable  of  making  him  happy,  he  resolved  to  bestow  her  upon 
him,  together  with  all  his  estates. 

Mr.  Glanville  received  this  agreeable  news  with  the  strongest 
expressions  of  gratitude  ;  assuring  his  uncle  that  Lady  Bella, 
of  all  the  women  he  had  ever  seen,  was  most  agreeable  to  his 
taste  ;  and  that  he  felt  for  her  all  the  tenderness  and  affection 
his  soul  was  capable  of. 

"I  am  glad  of  it,  my  dear  nephew,"  said  the  marquis,  em- 
bracing him;  "I  will  allow  you,"  added  he,  smiling,  "but  a 
few  weeks  to  court  her  ;  gain  her  heart  as  soon  as  you  can, 
and  when  you  bring  me  her  consent  the  marriage  shall  be 
solemnized  immediately." 

Mr.  Glanville  needed  not  a  repetition  of  so  agreeable  a  com- 
mand ;  he  left  his  uncle's  closet  with  his  heart  filled  with  the 
expectation  of  his  approaching  happiness,  and,  understanding 
Arabella  was  in  the  garden,  he  went  to  her  with  the  resolution 
to  acquaint  her  with  the  permission  her  father  had  given  him 
to  make  his  addresses  to  her. 

He  found  his  fair  cousin,  as  usual,*  accompanied  with  her 
women  ;  and,  seeing  that  notwithstanding  his  approach  they 
still  continued  to  walk  with  her,  and  impatient  of  the  restraint 
they  laid  him  under, 

"  I  beseech  you,  cousin,"  said  he,  "  let  me  have  the  pleasure 
of  walking  with  you  alone  :  what  necessity  is  there  for  always 
having  so  many  witnesses  of  our  conversation  ?  You  may 
retire,"  said  he,  speaking  to  Lucy  and  the  other  woman  ;  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  your  lady  in  private." 

"Stay,  I  command  you,"  said  Arabella,  blushing  at  an  inso- 
lence so  uncommon,  "and  take  orders  from  no  one  but  my- 
self. I  pray  you,  sir,"  pursued  she  frowning,  "what  inter- 
course of  secrets  is  there  between  you  and  me,  that  you  expect 
I  should  favor  you  with  a  private  conversation  ;  an  advantage 
which  none  of  your  sex  ever  boasted  to  have  gained  from  me, 


Mr.  Glanville  in 
love. 


Interview  in  the 
garden. 


58       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Difference  of 
opinion. 


Extraordinary 
action  of 
Arabella. 


and  which,  haply,  you  should  be  the  last  upon  whom  I  should 
bestow  it?" 

"You  have  the  strangest  notions,"  answered  Glanville, 
smiling  at  the  pretty  anger  she  discovered;  "certainly  you 
may  hold  a  private  conversation  with  any  gentleman  without 
giving  offense  to  decorum  :  and  I  may  plead  a  right  to  this 
happiness  above  any  other,  since  I  have  the  honor  to  be  your 
relation." 

"It  is  not  at  all  surprising,"  resumed  Arabella  gravely, 
"that  you  and  I  should  differ  in  opinion  upon  this  occasion  :  I 
don't  remember  that  we  ever  agreed  in  anything,  and  I  am 
apt  to  believe  we  never  shall." 

"Ah  !  don't  say  so,  Lady  Bella,"  interrupted  he.  "What  a 
prospect  of  misery  you  lay  before  me  !  for,  if  we  are  always  to 
be  opposite  to  each  other,  it  is  necessary  that  you  must  hate 
me  as  much  as  I  admire  and  love  you." 

These  words,  which  he  accompanied  with  a  gentle  pressure 
of  her  hand,  threw  the  astonished  Arabella  into  such  an  excess 
of  anger  and  shame  that  for  a  few  moments  she  was  unable  to 
utter  a  word. 

What  a  horrid  violation  this  of  all  the  laws  of  gallantry  and 
respect,  which  decree  a  lover  to  suffer  whole  years  in  silence 
before  he  declares  his  flame  to  the  divine  object  that  causes  it, 
and  then  with  awful  tremblings  and  submissive  prostrations  at 
the  feet  of  the  offended  fair  ! 

Arabella  could  hardly  believe  her  senses  when  she  heard  a 
declaration  not  only  made  without  the  usual  forms,  but  also, 
that  the  presumptuous  criminal  waited  for  an  answer  without 
seeming  to  have  any  apprehension  of  the  punishment  to  which 
he  was  to  be  doomed  ;  and  that,  instead  of  deprecating  her 
wrath,  he  looked  with  a  smiling  wonder  upon  her  eyes,  as  if  he 
did  not  fear  their  lightning  would  strike  him  dead. 

Indeed,  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  him  to  help  smiling  and 
wondering,  too,  at  the  extraordinary  action  of  Arabella  ;  for  as 
soon  as  he  had  pronounced  those  fatal  words  she  started  back 
two  or  three  steps,  cast  a  look  at  him  full  of  the  highest  indig- 
nation ;  and,  lifting  up  her  fine  eyes  to  heaven,  seemed,  in  the 
language  of  romance,  to  accuse  the  gods  for  subjecting  her  to 
so  cruel  an  indignity. 

The  tumult  of  her  thoughts  being  a  little  settled,  she  turned 
again  toward  Glanville,  whose  countenance  expressed  nothing 


Charlotte  Lennox.  59 


of  that  confusion  and  anxiety  common  to  an  adorer  in  so  critical 
a  circumstance,  her  rage  returned  with  greater  violence  than 
ever. 

"If  I  do  not  express  all  the  resentment  your  welcome  has 
filled  me  with,"  said  she  to  him,  affecting  more  scorn  than 
anger,  "  'tis  because  I  hold  you  too  mean  for  my  resentment  ; 
but  never  hope  for  my  pardon  for  your  presumptuous  con- 
fession of  a  passion  I  could  almost  despise  myself  for  inspiring. 
If  it  be  true  that  you  love  me,,  go  and  find  your  punishment 
in  that  absence  to  which  I  doom  you  ;  and  never  hope  I  will 
suffer  a  person  in  my  presence  who  has  affronted  me  in  the 
manner  you  have  done." 

Saying  this  she  walked  away,  making  a  sign  to  him  not  to 
follow  her. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MR.  GLANVILLE,  after  a  time,  grew  angry  at  the  con- 
duct  of    Arabella,    and  departed    one    morning    early, 
der'artureViUe'S    r^m8"  as  ^ast  as  possible  to  the  next  stage,  where  he 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  uncle  : 

MY  LORD  :  As  my  leaving  your  house  so  abruptly  will  cer- 
tainly make  me  appear  guilty  of  a  most  unpardonable  rudeness, 
I  cannot  dispense  with  myself  from  acquainting  your  lordship 
with  the  cause  ;  though,  to  spare  the  reproaches  Lady  Bella 
will  probably  cast  on  me  for  doing  so,  I  could  wish  you  knew  it 
by  any  other  means. 

His  letter  to  But,  my  lord,  I  value  your  esteem  too  much  to  hazard  the 

the  marquis.  joss  Qf  ;t  by  suffering  yOU  to  imagine  that  I  am  capable  of  doing 
anything  to  displease  you.  Lady  Bella  was  pleased  to  order 
me  to  stay  no  longer  in  the  house,  and  menaced  me  with  some 
very  terrible  usage  if  I  disobeyed  her  ;  she  used  so  many  other 
contemptuous  expressions  to  me  that,  I  am  persuaded,  I  shall 
never  be  so  happy  as  to  possess  the  honor  you  designed  for, 
my  lord,  your  most  obedient,  etc., 

CHARLES  GLANVILLE. 

When  the  marquis  had  read  this  letter,  he  went  to  his  daugh- 

Displeasure  of     ter's  apartment  with  an  intention  to  chide  her  severely  for  the 

usage  of  his  nephew  ;  but  seeing  her  come  to  meet  him  with 

her  eyes  bathed  in  tears,  he  insensibly  lost  some  part  of  his 

resentment. 

"  Alas  !  my  lord,"  said  she,  "  I  know  you  come  prepared  to 
load  me  with  reproaches  upon  my  cousin's  account  ;  but  I 
beseech  your  lordship,  do  not  aggravate  my  sorrows  ;  though 
I  banished  Mr.  Glanville,  I  do  not  desire  his  death  ;  and,  ques- 
tionless, if  he  knew  how  I  resent  it,  his  ghost  would  be  satis- 
fied with  the  sacrifice  I  make  him." 

The  marquis,  not  being  able  to  help  smiling  at  this  conceit, 
which  he  saw  had  so  strongly  impressed  her  imagination  that 
she  had  no  sort  of  doubt  but  that  her  cousin  was  dead,  asked 


Charlotte  Lennox.  61 

her  if  she  really  believed  Mr.  Glanville  loved  her  well  enough 
to  die  with  grief  at  her  ill  usage  of  him. 

"If,"  said  she,  "he  loves  me  not  well  enough  to  die  for  me, 
he  certainly  loves  me  but  little,  and  I  am  the  less  obliged  to 
him." 

"  But  I  desire  to  know,"  interrupted  the  marquis,  "  for  what 
crime  it  was  you  took  the  liberty  to  banish  him  from  my 
house." 

"  I  banished  him,  my  lord,"  resumed  she,  "  for  his  presump- 
tion in  telling  me  he  loved  me." 

"That  presumption,  as  you  call  it,  though  I  know  not  for    T 

,r  J  His  commands 

what  reason,"  said  the  marquis,  "  was  authorized  by  me  ;  there-   upon  Arabella. 

fore,  know,  Bella,  that  I  not  only  permit  him  to  love  you,  but  I 

also  expect  you  should  endeavor  to  return  his  affection,  and 

look  upon  him  as  the  man  whom  I  design  for  your  husband  ; 

there's  his  letter,"  pursued  he,  putting  it  into  her  hand.     "  I 

blush  for  the  rudeness  you  have  been  guilty  of,  but  endeavor  to 

repair  it  by  a  more  obliging  behavior  for  the  future  ;  I  am  going 

to  send  after  him  immediately  to  prevail  upon  him  to  return  ; 

therefore  write  him  an  apology,  I  charge  you,  and  have  it  done 

by  the  time  my  messenger  is  ready  to  set  out." 

Saying  this,  he  went  out  of  the  room  ;  Arabella  eagerly 
opened  the  letter,  and  finding  it  in  a  style  so  different  from 
what  she  had  expected,  her  dislike  of  him  returned  with  more 
violence  than  ever. 

"Ah,  the  traitor!"  said  she  aloud,  "is  it  thus  that  he  en- 
deavors to  move  my  compassion  ?  How  greatly  did  I  overrate  Her  agitation, 
his  affection  when  I  imagined  his  despair  was  capable  of  killing 
him!  Disloyal  man!"  pursued  she,  walking  about,  "is  it  by 
complaints  to  my  father  that  thou  expectest  to  succeed  ?  And 
dost  thou  imagine  the  heart  of  Arabella  is  to  be  won  by 
violence  and  injustice?"  In  this  manner  she  wasted  the  time 
allotted  for  her  to  write,  and  when  the  marquis  sent  for  her 
letter,  having  no  intention  to  comply,  she  went  to  his  chamber, 
conjuring  him  not  to  oblige  her  to  a  condescension  so  un- 
worthy of  her. 

The  marquis,  being  now  excessively  angry  with  her,  rose  up 
in  a  fury,  and,  leading  her  to  his  writing  desk,  ordered  her 
instantly  to  write  to  her  cousin. 

"If  I  must  write,  my  lord,"  said  she  sobbing,  "pray  be 
so  good  as  to  dictate  what  I  must  say." 


62       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"Apologize  for  your  rude  behavior,"  said  the  marquis,  "and 
desire  him,  in  the  most  obliging  manner  you  can,  to  return." 

Arabella,  seeing  there  was  a  necessity  for  obeying,  took  up 
the  pen  and  wrote  the  following  billet : 

' '  The  unfortunate  Arabella  to  the  most  ungenerous  Glanville. 

"It  is  not  by  the  power  I  have  over  you  that  I  command  you 

Her  letter  to  J 

Glanville.  to  return,  for  I  disclaim  any  empire  over  so  unworthy  a  sub- 

ject; but  since  it  is  my  father's  pleasure  I  should  invite  you 
back,  I  must  let  you  know  that  I  repeal  your  banishment,  and 
expect  you  will  immediately  return  with  the  messenger  who 
brings  this.  However,  to  spare  your  acknowledgments,  know, 
that  it  is  in  obedience  to  my  father's  absolute  commands  that 
you  receive  this  mandate  from 

"ARABELLA." 

Having  finished  this  billet  she  gave  it  to  the  marquis  to 
read ;  who,  finding  a  great  deal  of  his  own  haughtiness  of 
temper  in  it,  could  not  resolve  to  check  her  for  a  disposition  so 
like  his  own ;  yet  he  told  her  her  style  was  very  uncommon. 
"And  pray,"  added  he  smiling,  "who  taught  you  to  super- 
scribe  your  letters  thus,  'The  unfortunate  Arabella  to  the 
most  ungenerous  Glanville '  ?  Why,  Bella,  this  superscription 
is  wholly  calculated  for  the  bearer's  information,  but  come, 
alter  it  immediately ;  for  I  do  not  choose  my  messenger  should 
know  that  you  are  unfortunate,  or  that  my  nephew  is  un- 
generous." 

"Pray,  my  lord,"  replied  Arabella,  "content  yourself  with 
what  I  have  already  done  in  obedience  to  your  commands,  and 
suffer  my  letter  to  remain  as  it  is ;  methinks  it  is  but  reason- 
able I  should  express  some  little  resentment  at  the  complaint 
my  cousin  has  been  pleased  to  make  to  you  against  me,  nor 
can  I  possibly  make  any  letter  more  obliging  without  being 
guilty  of  an  unpardonable  meanness." 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl,"  replied  the  marquis,  taking  the 
letter  and  enclosing  it  in  one  from  himself,  in  which  he 
earnestly  entreated  his  nephew  to  return,  threatening  him  with 
his  displeasure  if  he  disobeyed,  and  assuring  him  that  his 
daughter  would  receive  him  as  well  as  he  could  possibly 
desire.  The  messenger  being  despatched,  with  orders  to  ride 
post  and  overtake  the  young  gentleman,  he  obeyed  his  orders 
so  well  that  he  came  up  with  him  before  night. 


Charlotte  Lennox.  63 


The  marquis  was  extremely  uneasy  at  the  obstinacy  of  his 
daughter.  He  desired  nothing  more  ardently  than  to  marry 
her  to  his  nephew,  but  he  could  not  resolve  to  force  her  con- 
sent; and,  however  determined  he  appeared  to  her,  yet,  in 
reality,  he  intended  to  use  persuasions  only  to  effect  what  he 
desired,  and,  from  the  natural  sweetness  of  her  temper,  he  was 
sometimes  not  without  hopes  that  she  might  at  last  be  pre-  • 
vailed  upon  to  comply. 

His  nephew's  return  restored  him  to  part  of  his  usual  tran-    Return  of  G]an. 
quillity.     After  he  had  gently  chid  him  for  suffering  himself  to   ville. 
be  so  far  transported  with  resentment  at  the  little  humors  of  a 
lady  as  to  leave  his  house  without  acquainting  him,  he  bade 
him  go  to  Arabella  and  endeavor  to  make  his  peace  with  her. 

Mr.  Glanville  accordingly  went  to  her  apartment,  resolving 
to  oblige  her  to  come  to  some  explanation  with  him  concerning 
the  offense  she  complained  of;  but  that  fair,  incensed  lady,  who 
had  taken  shelter  in  her  closet,  ordered  Lucy  to  tell  him  she 
was  indisposed  and  could  not  see  him. 

Glanville,  however,  comforted  himself  for  this  disappoint- 
ment by  the  hopes  of  seeing  her  at  supper,  and  accordingly  she 
came  when  the  supper  bell  rung,  and,  making  a  very  cool  com- 
pliment to  her  cousin,  placed  herself  at  table.  The  soft 
languor  that  appeared  in  her  eyes  gave  such  an  additional 
charm  to  one  of  the  loveliest  faces  in  the  world,  that  Glanville, 
who  sat  opposite  to  her,  could  not  help  gazing  on  her  with 
a  very  particular  attention  ;  he  often  spoke  to  her,  and  asked 
her  trifling  questions  for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  which  sorrow  had  made  enchantingly  sweet. 

When  supper  was  over  she  would  have  retired,  but  the  mar- 
quis desired  her  to  stay  and  entertain  her  cousin  while  he  went 
to  look  over  some  despatches  he  had  received  from  London. 

Arabella    blushed    with    anger  at  this  command  ;  but  not 
daring  to  disobey,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  as  if  pleased, 
she  dreaded  to  hear  something  that  would  displease  her. 

"Well,  cousin,"  said  Glanville,  "though  you  desire  to  have 
no  empire  over  so  unworthy  a  subject  as  myself,  yet  I  hope 
you  are  not  displeased  at  my  returning,  in  obedience  to  your 
commands." 

"Since  I  am  not  allowed  any  will  of  my  own,"  said  she 
sighing,  "it  matters  not  whether  I  am  pleased  or  displeased  ; 
nor  is  it  of  any  consequence  to  you  to  know." 


64      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"Indeed  but  it  is,  Lady  Bella,"  interrupted  he,  "for  if  I 
knew  how  to  please  you  I  would  never,  if  I  could  help  it, 
offend  ;  therefore,  I  beg  you,  tell  me  how  I  have  disobliged 
you ;  for  certainly  you  have  treated  me  as  harshly  as  if  I  had 
been  guilty  of  some  very  terrible  offense." 

"You  had  the  boldness,"  said  she,  "to  talk  to  me  of  love, 

Argument  and  you  well  know  that  persons  of  my  sex  and  quality  are  not 

loverand  ^         permitted  to  listen  to  such  discourses  ;  and  if  for  that  offense  I 

Arabella.  banished  you  my  presence,    I   did    no    more    than    decency 

required  of  me,  and  which  I  would  yet  do  were  I  mistress 

of  my  own  actions." 

"But  is  it  possible,  cousin,"  said  Glanville,  "that  you  can  be 
angry  with  any  one  for  loving  you  ?  Is  that  a  crime  of  as  high 
a  nature  as  to  merit  an  eternal  banishment  from  your 
presence?  " 

"Without  telling  you,"  said  Arabella  blushing,  "whether  I 
am  angry  at  being  loved,  it  is  sufficient,  you  know,  that  I  will 
not  pardon  the  man  who  has  the  presumption  to  tell  me  he 
loves  me." 

"But,  madam,"  interrupted  Glanville,  "if  the  person  who 
tells  you  he  loves  you  be  of  a  rank  not  beneath  you,  I  conceive 
you  are  not  at  all  injured  by  the  favorable  sentiments  he  feels 
for  you,  and  though  you  are  not  disposed  to  make  any  return 
to  his  passion,  yet  you  are  certainly  obliged  to  him  for  his  good 
opinion." 

" Since  love  is  not  voluntary,"  replied  Arabella,  "I  am  not 
obliged  to  any  person  for  loving  me,  for,  questionless,  if  he 
could  help  it  he  would." 

The  code  of  "If  it  is  not  a  voluntary  favor,"  interrupted  Glanville,  "  it  is 

heroines.  ^  not  a  voluntary  offense  ;  and   if  you  do   not  think  yourself 

obliged  by  one,  neither  are  you  at  liberty  to  be  offended  with 
the  other." 

"The  question,"  said  Arabella,  "is  not  whether  I  ought  to 
be  offended  at  being  loved,  but  whether  it  is  not  an  offense  to 
be  told  I  am  so." 

"If  there  is  nothing  criminal  in  the  passion  itself,  madam," 
resumed  Glanville,  "certainly  there  can  be  no  crime  in  declar- 
ing it." 

"However  specious  your  arguments  may  appear,"  inter- 
rupted Arabella,  "  I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  unpardonable  crime 
to  tell  a  lady  you  love  her  ;  and  though  I  had  nothing  else  to 


Charlotte  Lennox. 


Heroines  of 
antiquity. 


plead,  yet  the  authority  of  custom  is  sufficient  to  prove  it."    Authority  of 

"  Custom,  Lady  Bella,"  said  Glanville  smiling,  "  is  wholly  on  custom, 
my  side ;  for  the  ladies  are  so  far  from  being  displeased  at  the 
addresses  of  their  lovers,  that  their  chiefest  care  is  to  gain 
them,  and  their  greatest  triumph  to  hear  them  talk  of  their 
passion ;  so,  madam,  I  hope  you  will  allow  that  argument  has 
no  force." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Arabella,  "what  sort  of  ladies  they 
are  who  allow  such  unbecoming  liberties  ;  but  I  am  certain 
that  Statira,  Parisatis,  Clelia,  and  Mandane,  and  all  the  illus- 
trious heroines  of  antiquity,  whom  it  is  a  glory  to  resemble, 
never  would  admit  of  such  discourses." 

"Ah!  for  heaven's  sake,  cousin,"  interrupted  Glanville, 
stifling  a  laugh,  "do  not  suffer  yourself  to  be  guided  by  such 
antiquated  maxims  !  The  world  is  quite  different  to  what  it 
was  in  those  days,  and  the  ladies  in  this  age  would  as  soon 
follow  the  fashions  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  ladies  as  mimic 
their  manners  ;  and,  I  believe,  they  would  become  one  as  well 
as  the  other." 

"I  am  sure,"  replied  Arabella,  "the  world  is  not  more  vir- 
tuous now  than  it  was  in  those  days  ;  and  there  is  good  reason 
to  believe  it  not  much  wiser  ;  and  I  do  not  see  why  the  manners 
of  this  age  are  to  be  preferred  to  former  ones  unless  they  are 
wiser  and  better ;  however,  I  cannot  be  persuaded  that  things 
are  as  you  say  ;  but  that,  when  I  am  a  little  better  acquainted 
with  the  world,  I  shall  find  as  many  people  who  resemble 
Oroondates,  Artaxerxes,  and  the  illustrious  lover  of  Clelia,  as 
those  who  are  like  Teribases,  Artaxes,  and  the  presuming  and 
insolent  Glanville." 

"  By  the  epithets  you  give  me,  madam,"  said  Glanville,  "I 
find  you  have  placed  me  in  very  bad  company ;  but  pray, 
madam,  if  the  illustrious  lover  of  Clelia  had  never  discovered   Clelia. 
his  passion,  how  would  the  world  have  come  to  the  knowledge 
of  it?" 

"He  did  not  discover  his  passion,  sir,"  resumed  Arabella, 
"until  by  the  services  he  did  the  noble  Clelius,  and  his  incom- 
parable daughter,  he  could  plead  some  title  to  their  esteem. 
He  several  times  preserved  the  life  of  that  renowned  Roman  ; 
delivered  the  beautiful  Clelia  when  she  was  a  captive  ;  and,  in 
fine,  conferred  so  many  obligations  upon  them,  and  all  their 
friends,  that  he  might  well  expect  to  be  pardoned  by  the  divine 


66      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Clelia  for  daring  to  love  her.  Nevertheless  she  used  him  very 
harshly  when  he  first  declared  his  passion,  and  banished  him 
also  from  her  presence,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  she 
could  prevail  upon  herself  to  compassionate  his  sufferings." 

The  marquis,  coming  in,  interrupted  Arabella,  upon  which 
she  took  occasion  to  retire,  leaving  Glanville  more  captivated 
with  her  than  ever. 

He  found  her  usage  of  him  was  grounded  upon  examples 
she  thought  it  her  duty  to  follow  ;  and,  strange  as  her  notions 
of  life  appeared,  yet  they  were  supported  by  so  much  wit  and 
delicacy  that  he  could  not  help  admiring  her,  while  he  fore- 
saw the  oddity  of  her  humor  would  throw  innumerable  difficul- 
ties in  his  way  before  he  should  be  able  to  obtain  her.  How- 
Glanville  ever,  as  he  was  really  passionately  in  love  with  her,  he  resolved 

passionately         to  accommodate  himself  as  much  as  possible  to  her  taste,  and 

in  love. 

endeavor  to  gain  her  heart  by  a  behavior  most  agreeable  to 
her  ;  he  therefore  assumed  an  air  of  great  distance  and  respect, 
never  mentioned  his  affections  nor  the  intentions  of  her  father 
in  his  favor ;  and  the  marquis,  observing  his  daughter  con- 
versed with  him  with  less  reluctance  than  usual,  leaving  to 
time  and  the  merit  of  his  nephew  to  dispose  her  to  comply 
with  his  desires,  resolved  not  to  interpose  his  authority  in  an 
affair  upon  which  her  own  happiness  so  much  depended. 

The  next  chapter,  which  will  try  the  patience  of  the 
reader  still  more  than  Glanville  was  tried  by  the  whims 
of  his  Arabella,  is,  however,  the  one  which  is  my  excuse 
for  introducing  the  book.  The  extract  from  "  Cas- 
sandra ' '  is  probably  the  only  scrap  of  that  work  which 
exists  in  modern  literature,  and  Arabella  is  surely  the 
only  lady  accessible  to  us  who  can  expound  the  intri- 
cacies of  it. 

In  this  chapter  the  reader  will  find  a  specimen  of  the  true 
pathetic,  in  the  passion  of  Oroondates. 

Arabella  saw  the  change  in  her  cousin's  behavior  with  a 
great  deal  of  satisfaction,  for  she  did  not  doubt  but  his  passion 
was  as  strong  as  ever,  but  that  he  forebore,  through  respect, 
from  entertaining  her  with  any  expressions  of  it  ;  therefore  she 


Charlotte  Lennox.  67 


now  conversed  with  him  with  the  greatest  sweetness  and  com- 
plaisance ;  she  would  walk  with  him  for  several  hours  in  the 
garden,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  and  charmed  him  to  the  last   Arabella's  wit 
degree  of  admiration  by  the  agreeable  sallies  of  her  wit,  and   reasoning, 
her  fine  reasoning  upon  every  subject  he  proposed. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  he  restrained  himself  from 
telling  her  a  thousand  times  a  day  that  he  loved  her  to  excess, 
and  conjuring  her  to  give  her  consent  to  her  father's  designs  in 
his  favor  ;  but,  though  he  could  get  over  his  fears  of  offending 
her,  yet  it  was  impossible  to  express  any  sentiments  of  this 
nature  to  her  without  having  women  witnesses  of  his  discourse; 
for  when  he  walked  with  her  in  the  garden,  Lucy  and  another 
attendant  always  followed  her  ;  if  he  sat  with  her  in  her  own 
chamber  her  women  were  always  at  one  end  of  it ;  and  when 
they  were  both  in  the  marquis's  apartments,  where  her  women 
did  not  follow  her,  poor  Glanville  found  himself  embarrassed 
by  his  presence  ;  for,  conceiving  his  nephew  had  opportunities 
enough  of  talking  to  his  daughter  in  private,  he  always  partook 
of  their  conversation. 

He  passed  some  weeks  in  this  manner,  extremely  chagrined 
at  the  little  progress  he  made,  and  was  beginning  to  be 
heartily  weary  of  the  constraint  he  laid  upon  himself,  when 
Arabella  one  day  furnished  him,  without  designing  it,  with  an 
opportunity  of  talking  to  her  on  the  subject  he  wished  for. 

"When  I  reflect,"  said  she  laughing,  "  upon  the  difference 
there  was  between  us  some  days  ago  and  the  familiarity  in 
which  we  live  at  present,  I  cannot  imagine  by  what  means  you 
have  arrived  to  a  good  fortune  you  had  so  little  reason  to 
expect  ;  for,  in  fine,  you  have  given  me  no  signs  of  repentance 
for  the  fault  you  committed,  which  moved  me  to  banish  you  ; 
and  I  am  not  certain  whether,  in  conversing  with  you  in  the 
manner  I  do,  I  give  you  not  as  much  reason  to  find  fault  with 
my  too  great  easiness,  as  you  did  me  to  be  displeased  with 
your  presumption." 

"Since,"  returned  Glanville,"  I  have  not  persisted  in  the 
commission  of  those  faults  which  displeased  you,  what  greater 
signs  of  repentance  can  you  desire  than  this  reformation  in  my 
behavior?" 

"But  repentance  ought  to  precede  reformation,"  replied 
Arabella,  "  otherwise  there  is  great  room  to  suspect  it  is  only 
feigned  ;  and  a  sincere  repentance  shows  itself  in  such  visible 


68       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


A  long  speech 
by  Arabella. 


Glanville 
humors  her 
bent. 


Oroondates 
and  Statira. 


marks  that  one  can  hardly  be  deceived  in  that  which  is  genuine. 
I  have  read  of  many  indiscreet  lovers  who,  not  succeeding  in 
their  addresses,  have  pretended  to  repent  and  acted  as  you  do  ; 
that  is,  without  giving  any  signs  of  contrition  for  the  fault  they 
had  committed,  have  eat  and  slept  well,  never  lost  their  color, 
or  grew  one  bit  thinner  by  their  sorrow,  but  contented  them- 
selves with  saying  that  they  repented ;  and,  without  changing 
their  disposition  to  renew  their  fault,  only  concealed  their 
intention  for  fear  of  losing  any  favorable  opportunity  of  com- 
mitting it  again  ;  but  true  repentance,  as  I  was  saying,  not  only 
produces  reformation,  but  the  person  who  is  possessed  of  it 
voluntarily  punishes  himself  for  the  faults  he  has  been  guilty  of. 
Thus  Mazares,  deeply  repenting  of  the  crime  his  passion  for 
Mandane  had  forced  him  to  commit,  as  a  punishment,  obliged 
himself  to  follow  the  fortune  of  his  glorious  rival,  obey  all  his 
commands,  and,  fighting  under  his  banners,  assist  him  to  gain 
the  possession  of  his  adored  mistress.  Such  a  glorious  in- 
stance of  his  self-denial  was,  indeed,  a  sufficient  proof  of  his 
repentance,  and  infinitely  more  convincing  than  the  silence  he 
imposed  upon  himself  with  respect  to  his  passion.  Oroon- 
dates, to  punish  himself  for  his  presumption,  in  daring  to  tell 
the  admirable  Statira  that  he  loved  her,  resolved  to  die  to 
expiate  his  crime,  and  doubtless  would  have  done  so  if  his  fair 
mistress,  at  the  entreaty  of  her  brother,  had  not  commanded 
him  to  live." 

"But  pray,  Lady  Bella,"  interrupted  Glanville,  "were  not 
these  gentlemen  happy  at  last  in  the  possession  of  their 
mistresses?" 

"Doubtless  they  were,  sir,"  resumed  she;  "but  it  was  not 
till  after  numberless  misfortunes,  infinite  services,  and  many 
dangerous  adventures,  in  which  their  fidelity  was  put  to  the 
strongest  trials  imaginable." 

"I  am  glad,  however,"  said  Glanville,  "that  the  ladies  were 
not  insensible ;  for,  since  you  do  not  disapprove  of  their  com- 
passion for  their  lovers,  it  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  not  be  always 
as  inexorable  as  you  are  now." 

"When  I  shall  be  so  fortunate,"  interrupted  she,  "as  to 
meet  with  a  lover  who  shall  have  as  pure  and  perfect  a  passion 
for  me  as  Oroondates  had  for  Statira,  and  give  me  as  many 
glorious  proofs  of  his  constancy  and  affection,  doubtless  I  shall 
not  be  ungrateful ;  but,  since  I  have  not  the  merits  of  Statira,  I 


Charlotte  Lennox.  69 

ought  not  to  pretend  to  her  good  fortune,  and  shall  be  very 
well  contented  if  I  escape  the  persecutions  which  persons  of  my 
sex  who  are  not  frightfully  ugly  are  always  exposed  to,  without 
hoping  to  inspire  such  a  passion  as  that  of  Oroondates." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  be  better  acquainted  with  the  actions  of 
this  happy  lover,  madam,"  said  Glanville,  "that,  forming 
myself  upon  his  example,  I  may  hope  to  please  a  lady  as 
worthy  of  my  regards  as  Statira  was  of  his." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  cousin,"  replied  Arabella  laughing, 
"how  have  you  spent  your  time,  and  to  what  studies  have  you 
devoted  your  hours,  that  you  could  find  none  to  spare  for  the  pe- 
rusal of  books  from  which  all  useful  knowledge  may  be  drawn  ; 
which  give  us  the  most  shining  examples  of  generosity,  courage, 
virtue,  and  love  ;  which  regulate  our  actions,  form  our  manners, 
and  inspire  us  with  a  noble  desire  of  emulating  those  great, 
heroic,  and  virtuous  actions  which  made  those  persons  so 
glorious  in  their  age  and  so  worthy  imitation  in  ours  ?  How- 
ever, as  it  is  never  too  late  to  improve,  suffer  me  to  recom- 
mend to  you  the  reading  of  these  books,  which  will  soon  make 
you  discover  the  improprieties  you  have  been  guilty  of,  and 
will,  probably,  induce  you  to  avoid  them  for  the  future." 

"  I  shall  certainly  read  them,  if  you  desire  it,"   said  Glan- 
ville; "and  I  have  so  great  an  inclination  to  be  agreeable  to   ^"^['.fto 
you  that  I  shall  embrace  every  opportunity  of  becoming  so  ;    read  extracts, 
and  will  therefore  take  my  instructions  from  these  books,  if 
you  think  proper,  or  from  yourself ;  which,  indeed,  will  be  the 
quickest  way  of  teaching  me." 

Arabella,  having  ordered  one  of  her  women  to  bring  "  Cleo- 
patra," "Cassandra,"  "Clelia,"  and  "The  Grand  Cyrus"  from 
her  library,  Glanville  no  sooner  saw  the  girl  return,  sinking 
under  the  weight  of  those  voluminous  romances,  than  he  began 
to  tremble  at  the  apprehension  of  his  cousin  laying  her  com- 
mands upon  him  to  read  them  ;  and  repented  of  his  complai- 
sance, which  exposed  him  to  the  cruel  necessity  of  performing 
what  to  him  appeared  an  Herculean  labor,  or  else  incurring 
her  anger  by  his  refusal. 

Arabella,  making  her  women  place  the  books  upon  a  table 
before  her,  opened  them,  one  after  another,  with  eyes  spark-   romance. 
ling  with  delight,  while  Glanville  sat  wrapt  with  admiration 
at  the  sight  of  so  many  huge  folios  written,  as  he  conceived, 
upon  the  most  trifling  subjects  imaginable. 


70      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"  I  have  chosen  out  these  few,"  said  Arabella  (not  observing- 
his  consternation),  "  from  a  great  many  others  which  compose 
the  most  valuable  part  of  my  library;  and  by  the  time  you  have 
gone  through  these  I  imagine  you  will  be  considerably  im- 
proved." 

"Certainly,  madam,"  replied  Glanville,  turning  the  leaves  in 
great  confusion,  "one  may,  as  you  say,  be  greatly  improved  ; 
for  these  books  contain  a  great  deal,"  and  looking  over  a  page 
of  "  Cassandra "  without  any  design,  he  read  these  words, 
which  were  part  of  Oroondates's  soliloquy  when  he  received 
a  cruel  sentence  from  Statira  : 

"Ah,  cruel  !  (says  this  miserable  lover),  and  what  have  I 
Soliloquy  of  done  to  merit  it  ?  Examine  the  nature  of  my  offense,  and  you 

Oroondates.  '  J 

will  see  I  am  not  so  guilty  but  that  my  death  may  free  me  from 
part  of  that  severity.  Shall  your  hatred  last  longer  than  my 
life  ?  and  can  you  detest  a  soul  that  forsakes  its  body  only  to 
obey  you  ?  No,  no,  you  are  not  so  hard-hearted  ;  that  satisfac- 
tion will  doubtless  content  you,  and  when  I  shall  cease  to  be, 
doubtless  I  shall  cease  to  be  odious  to  you." 

"Upon  my  soul, "  said  Glanville,  stifling  a  laugh  with  great 
difficulty,  "  I  cannot  help  blaming  the  lady  this  sorrowful  lover 
complains  of,  for  her  great  cruelty  ;  for  here  he  gives  one 
reason  to  suspect  that  she  will  not  even  be  content  with  his 
dying  in  obedience  to  her  commands,  but  will  hate  him  after 
death,  an  impiety  quite  inexcusable  in  a  Christian  !  " 

"You  condemn  this  illustrious  princess  with  very  little 
reason,"  replied  Arabella,  smiling  at  his  mistake  ;  "  for  besides, 
that  she  was  not  a  Christian,  and  ignorant  of  those  divine  max- 
ims of  charity  and  forgiveness  which  Christians,  by  their  pro- 
fession, are  obliged  to  practice,  she  was  very  far  from  desiring 
the  death  of  Oroondates  ;  for,  if  you  will  take  the  pains  to  read 
the  succeeding  passages,  you  will  find  that  she  expresses  her- 
statira's  self  in  the  most  obliging  manner  in  the  world  ;  for  when  Oroon- 

generosity.  dates  tells  her  he  would  live  if  she  would  consent  he  should, 
the  princess  most  sweetly  replies  :  '  I  not  only  consent,  but 
also  entreat  it !  and,  if  I  have  any  power,  command  it.'  How- 
ever, lest  you  should  fall  into  the  other  extreme,  and  blame  this 
great  princess  for  her  easiness  (as  you  before  condemned  her 
for  her  cruelty)  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  know  how  she 
was  induced  to  this  favorable  behavior  to  her  lover  ;  therefore, 
read  the  whole  transaction.  Stay!  here  it  begins, "  continued 


Charlotte  Lennox,  71 


she,  turning  over  a  good  many  pages  and  marking  where  he 
should  begin  to  read. 

Glanville,  having  no  great  stomach  to  the  task,  endeavored 
to  evade  it,  by  entreating  his  cousin  to  relate  the  passages  she 
desired  he  should  be  acquainted  with  ;  but  she  declining  it, 
he  was  obliged  to  obey,  and  began  to  read  where  she  directed 
him,  and,  to  leave  him  at  liberty  to  read  with  greater  attention, 
she  left  him,  and  went  to  a  window  at  the  other  end  of  the 
chamber. 

Mr.  Glanville,  who  was  not  willing  to  displease  her,  ex- 
amined the  task  she  had  set  him,  resolving,  if  it  was  not  a    Glanville's 
very  hard  one,  to  comply  ;  but,  counting  the  pages,  he  was   p       y' 
quite  terrified  at  their  number,  and  therefore,  glancing  over 
them,  he  pretended  to  be  deeply  engaged  in  reading,  when,  in 
reality,  he  was  contemplating  the  surprising  effect  these  books 
had  produced  in  the  mind  of  his  cousin,  who,  had  she  been 
untainted  by  the  ridiculous  whims  they  created  in  her  imagina- 
tion, was,  in  his  opinion,  one  of  the  most  accomplished  ladies 
in  the  world. 

When  he  had  sat  long  enough  to  make  her  believe  he  had 
read  all  that  she  desired,  he  rose  up,  and,  joining  her  at  the 
window,  began  to  talk  of  the  pleasantness  of  the  evening 
instead  of  the  rigor  of  Statira. 

Arabella  colored  with  vexation  at  his  extreme  indifference  in 
a  matter  which  was  of  such  prodigious  consequence  in  her 
opinion.  Glanville,  by  her  silence  and  frowns,  was  made 
sensible  of  his  fault ;  and,  to  repair  it,  began  to  talk  of  the 
inexorable  Statira,  though,  indeed,  he  did  not  well  know  what 
to  say.  Arabella,  clearing  up  a  little,  did  not  disdain  to  answer 
him  upon  her  favorite  topic  : 

"I  knew,"  said  she,  "you  would  be  ready  to  blame  this 
princess  equally  for  her  rigor  and  her  kindness  :  but  it  must  be 
remembered  that  what  she  did  in  favor  of  Oroondates  was 
wholly  owing  to  the  generosity  of  Artaxerxes." 

Here  she  stopped,  expecting  Glanville  to  give  his  opinion,    His  subter- 
who,    strangely  puzzled,   replied  at  random,    "To    be    sure,    fuses- 
madam,  he  was  a  very  generous  rival." 

"  Rival  !  "  cried  Arabella  ;  "  Artaxerxes  the  rival  of  Oroon- 
dates !  Why,  certainly  you  have  lost  your  wits ;  he  was 
Statira's  brother ;  and  it  was  to  his  mediation  that  Oroon- 
dates, or  Orontes,  owed  his  happiness." 


72       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"Certainly,  madam,"  replied  Glanville,  "it  was  very  gen- 
erous in  Artaxerxes,  as  he  was  brother  to  Statira,  to  interpose 
in  behalf  of  an  unfortunate  lover ;  and  both  Oroondates  and 
Orontes  were  extremely  obliged  to  him." 

"Orontes,"  replied  Arabella,  "was  more  obliged  to  him 
than  Oroondates ;  since  the  quality  of  Orontes  was  infinitely 
below  that  of  Oroondates." 

His  deception  "But,  madam,"  interrupted  Glanville  (extremely  pleased  at 
discovered.  his  having  so  well  got  over  the  difficulty  he  had  been  in), 
"which  of  these  two  lovers  did  Statira  make  happy?"  This 
unlucky  question  immediately  informed  Arabella  that  she  had 
been  all  this  time  the  dupe  of  her  cousin,  who,  if  he  had  read 
a  single  page,  would  have  known  that  Orontes  and  Oroondates 
were  the  same  person  ;  the  name  of  Orontes  being  assumed  by 
Oroondates  to  conceal  his  real  name  and  quality. 

The  shame  and  rage  she  conceived  at  so  glaring  a  proof  of 
his  disrespect  and  the  ridicule  to  which  she  had  exposed  her- 
self were  so  great  that  she  could  not  find  words  severe  enough 
to  express  her  resentment,  but  ordered  him  instantly  to 
quit  her  chamber,  and  assured  him,  if  he  ever  attempted  to 
approach  her  again,  she  would  submit  to  the  most  terrible 
effects  of  her  father's  resentment  rather  than  be  obliged  to  see 
a  person  who  had,  by  his  unworthy  behavior,  made  himself  her 
scorn  and  aversion. 

Glanville  attempted,  with  great  submission,  to  move  her  to 

Arabella  recall  her  cruel  sentence  ;  but  Arabella,  bursting  into   tears, 

inexorable.          complained  so  pathetically  of  the  cruelty  of  her  destiny  in 

exposing  her  to  the  importunities  of  a  man  she  despised,  that 

Glanville,  thinking  it  best  to  let  her  rage  evaporate  a  little 

before  he  attempted  to  pacify  her,  quitted  her  chamber,  cursing 

Statira  and  Orontes  a  thousand  times,  and  loading  the  authors 

of  those  books  with  all  the  imprecations  his  rage  could  suggest. 

Glanville  went  into  the  garden  to  cool  off,  and  here 
meeting  the  marquis,  he  told  him  the  whole  thing  ;  in 
the  course  of  his  recital  he  could  not  help  laughing,  and 
the  marquis  was  so  diverted  that  he  ' '  would  needs  hear 

Amusement  of       ...  ,,        TT          .  ,      ,  t     i  • 

the  marquis.  it  all  over  again.  He  shared  the  annoyance  of  his 
nephew,  but  reproved  him  for  not  reading  what  was  set 
before  him,  for,  says  he,  "besides  losing  an  opportunity 


Charlotte  Lennox.  73 


of  obliging  her,  you  drew  yourself  into  a  terrible  di- 
lemma." Glanville  admitted  his  error,  but  begged  his 
uncle  to  restore  him  to  the  favor  of  his  cousin.  Re- 
pairing to  his  daughter,  the  marquis  tried  to  reason 
amiably  with  her,  but  her  jargon  about  ' '  Candace,  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  Cleopatra"  so  enraged  him  that 
he  ordered  one  of  her  women  to  carry  all  her  beloved 
books  into  his  apartment,  vowing  he  would  commit 
them  to  the  flames. 

This  is  a  parallel   to   the   burning   of  the   books    in 

,,i->>          /-\     •  i)  i    •       f  -1  r     A  Burning  of  the 

Don  (Quixote,      and  in  fact  is  the  only  part  of  Ara-   books. 
bella's  history  which  runs  at  all  close  to  the  work  of 
Cervantes,  which  supplies  its  name.    There  were  various 
imitations   of  the  great  original,   of  which  this   is  per- 
haps the  best. 

We  must  now  leave  our  heroine  to  her  career.  Mr. 
Glanville  won  the  heart  of  his  fair  one  by  interceding 
for  her  favorite  books.  The  marquis  relented,  and  the 
young  man,  seizing  them  for  fear  his  uncle  should  change 
his  mind,  hastened  to  carry  them  to  his  cousin,  who, 
with  eyes  sparkling  at  the  sight  of  her  favorites,  gen- 
erously pardoned  her  lover. 

Of  course  she  married  him,   at  the  end  of  two  not 

.  Marriage. 

very  long  volumes,  wholly  cured,  after  a  series  of  mar- 
velous adventures,  of  all  her  follies  ;  although  on  her  first 
appearance  in  the  great  world,  ill  prepared  for  the  real 
dangers  of  society  by  her  false  notions  of  propriety 
acquired  in  her  early  studies,  she  made  continual  mis- 
takes. There  is  really  a  sweetness  and  ingenuousness 
about  Arabella,  which,  besides  protecting  her  from  the 
pitfalls  awaiting  her,  wins,  in  my  opinion,  the  affection 
of  her  readers,  or,  at  the  least,  prevents  them  from  lay-  Happyconclu- 
ing  down  her  story  with  the  condemnation  of  absolute 
dulness. 


74      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
You  may  meet  the  Lady  Arabella  again  at  Bath. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

British  Novelists  (Lecture  I.).     David  Masson,  M.A. 
British  Novelists,  Vols.  32-33  :  Female  Quixote  (Mrs.   Bar- 
bauld's  edition). 


BOOK  III. 
ADDISON  AND  GAY. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

WE  commonly  regard  the  age  of  the  Revolution 
as  an  age  of  military  exploits  and  political  changes, 
an  age  whose  warlike  glories  loom  dimly  through  the 
smoke  of  Blenheim  or  of  Ramillies,  and  the  greatness  of 
whose  political  issues  still  impresses  us,  though  we  track 
them  with  difficulty  through  a  chaos  of  treasons  and 
cabals.  But  to  the  men  who  lived  in  it  the  age  was  Changes  of  the 

f  1  1  •  T<        i  1        T->          1  Revolution. 

far  more  than  this.  I  o  them  the  Revolution  was  more 
than  a  merely  political  revolution;  it  was  the  recognition 
not  only  of  a  change  in  the  relations  of  the  nation  to  its 
rulers,  but  of  changes  almost  as  great  in  English  society 
and  in  English  intelligence.  If  it  was  the  age  of  the  Bill 
of  Rights,  it  was  the  age  also  of  the  Spectator.  If  Marl- 
borough  and  Somers  had  their  share  in  shaping  the  new 
England  that  came  of  1688,  so  also  had  Addison  and 
Steele.  And  to  the  bulk  of  people  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  change  that  passed  over  literature  was  not 
more  startling  and  more  interesting  than  the  change 
that  passed  over  politics.  Few  changes,  indeed,  have 
ever  been  so  radical  and  complete.  Literature  suddenly 
doffed  its  stately  garb  of  folio  or  octavo,  and  stepped 
abroad  in  the  light  and  easy  dress  of  pamphlet  and 
essay.  We  hear  sometimes  that  the  last  century  is 
"repulsive";  but  what  is  it  that  repels  us  in  it?  Is  it 
the  age  itself,  or  the  picture  of  itself  which  the  age  so 

75 


76       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Centtiry. 

fearlessly  presents?  There  is  no  historic  ground  for 
thinking  the  eighteenth  century  a  coarser  or  a  more 
brutal  age  than  the  centuries  that  had  gone  before  ; 
rather  there  is  ground  for  thinking  it  a  less  coarse  and  a 
less  brutal  age.  The  features  which  repel  us  in  it  are  no 
features  of  its  own  production.  What  makes  the 
improvement  Georgian  age  seem  repulsive  is  simply  that  it  is  the 

rn^he  Georgian    first  ag£  whjch  felt  these  ^.^  ^  ^  ^.^  wh}ch  dmgged 

them,  in  its  effort  to  amend  them,  into  the  light  of  day. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  moral  effort  of  the  time  which  makes 
it  seem  so  immoral. 

Steele  has  the  merit  of  having  been  the  first  to  feel 
the  new  intellectual  cravings  of  his  day  and  to  furnish 
what  proved  to  be  the  means  of  meeting  them.  His 
^Tatie™ t  e  Tatler  was  a  periodical  of  pamphlet  form,  in  which  news 
was  to  be  varied  by  short  essays  of  criticism  and  gossip. 
But  his  grasp  of  the  new  literature  was  a  feeble  grasp. 
His  sense  of  the  fitting  form  for  it,  of  its  fitting  tone,  of 
the  range  and  choice  of  its  subjects,  were  alike  in- 
adequate. He  seized  indeed  by  a  happy  instinct  on 
letter-writing  and  conversation  as  the  two  molds  to 
which  the  essay  must  adapt  itself ;  he  seized  with  the 
same  happy  instinct  on  humor  as  the  pervading  temper 
of  his  work  and  on  "manners"  as  its  destined  sphere. 
But  his  notion  of  "manners"  was  limited  not  only  to 
the  external  aspects  of  life  and  society,  but  to  those 
aspects  as  they  present  themselves  in  towns  ;  while  his 
humor  remained  pert  and  superficial.  The  Tatler,  how- 
ever, had  hardly  been  started  when  it  was  taken  in  hand 
by  a  greater  than  Steele.  "It  was  raised, ' '  as  he  frankly 
confessed,  "to  a  greater  thing  than  I  intended,"  by  the 
cooperation  of  Joseph  Addison. 

The  life  of  the  Tatler  lasted  through  the  years  1709 
and  1710  ;  the  two  next  years  saw  it  surpassed  by  the 


Addison  and  Gay.  77 

essays  of  the  Spectator,  and  this  was  followed  in  1713  by 

the  Guardian,  in  1714  by  a  fresh  series  of  Spectators,  in  spectator, 

•>  Guardian, 

1715  by  the  Freeholder.     In  all  these  successive  periodi-  Freeholder. 
cals  what  was  really  vital  and  important  was  the  work  of 
Addison.       Addison   grasped   the  idea  of  popularizing 
knowledge   as    frankly   as    Steele.       He   addressed    as 
directly  the  new  world  of  the  home. 

It  was  said  of  Socrates  [he  tells  us]  that  he  brought  phi- 
losophy down  from  heaven  to  inhabit  among  men  ;  and  I  shall 
be  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of  me  that  I  have  brought  philos- 
ophy out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell 
in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee-houses.  I 
would  therefore  [he  ends  with  a  smile]  recommend  these  my 
speculations  to  all  well-regulated  assemblies  that  set  apart  one 
hour  in  every  morning  for  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  and  would 
heartily  advise  them  for  their  good  to  order  this  paper  to  be 
punctually  served  up,  and  to  be  looked  upon  as  part  of  the 
tea-equipage. 

But  in  Addison' s  hands  this  popular  writing  became  a 
part  of  literature.  While  it  preserved  the  free  move-  spectator \rt 

Aduison's 

ment  of  the  letter-writer,  the  gaiety  and  briskness  of  hand- 
chat,  it  obeyed  the  laws  of  literary  art,  and  was  shaped 
and  guided  by  a  sense  of  literary  beauty.  Its  humor, 
too,  became  a  subtler  and  more  exquisite  thing.  Instead 
of  the  mere  wit  of  the  coffee-house,  men  found  them- 
selves smiling  with  a  humorist  who  came  nearer  than 
any  man  before  or  since  to  the  humor  of  Shakespeare. 
Joseph  Addison  was  born  in  1672,  the  son  of  Lancelot 
Addison,  rector  of  Lichfield,  educated  at  Charterhouse 
and  Magdalen  Colleq-e,  Oxford  ;  he  was  dissuaded  from  the  life  of 

.  &  .  Addison. 

his  design  of  entering  the  church  by  Charles  Montagu, 
afterward  Earl  of  Halifax,  who  procured  him  a  pension 
from  King  \Yilliam  and  sent  him  to  travel  in  France  and 
Italy.  Returning  to  England  (at  the  age  of  thirty-two) 
he  gained  some  reputation  by  a  poem  commemorating 


78      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

the  victory  of  Blenheim,  and  was  made  in  1705  secre- 
tary of  state,  holding  afterward  various  political  offices, 
from  which  he  drew  a  large  income,  while  they  left  him 
leisure  for  writing.  He  died  in  1719,  leaving  one 
daughter  by  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick,  whom 
he  had  married  three  years  before,  and  who  added  little 
to  his  comfort  while  he  was  alive.  This  daughter,  by  the 
way,  inherited  the  picture  of  Mr.  Wortley  before  men- 
tioned, and  through  her  half-sister  it  returned  to  the 
family  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley. 

Addison  was  a  fair  man,  of  indolent  habits  and  a 
Personal  traits,  languid  vitality.  He  had  naturally  a  fine  memory  for 
words,  and  was  in  his  quiet  way  an  accurate  observer  of 
what  passed  before  him.  His  chief  intellectual  exercise 
was  the  study  of  "putting  things" — whether  things  that 
he  had  seen  and  heard,  reflections  that  he  had  made 
upon  them,  or  thoughts  that  he  had  met  with  in  the 
course  of  his  reading;  "a  fine  gentleman  living  upon 
town,  not  professing  any  deep  scholastic  knowledge  of 
literature,"  and  employing  his  leisure  in  writing  elegant 
periodical  articles. 

Although  engaged  in  politics,  he  had  no  natural  gifts 
for  active  life.  He  could  not  have  made  his  own 
position ;  the  accident  of  the  times  rendered  literary 
service  valuable,  and  he  was  virtually  the  literary 
retainer  of  the  leaders  of  the  Whig  party. 

Of  the  course  of  Addison' s  familiar  day,  before  his 
marriage,  Johnson  says  : 

He  had  in  the  house  with  him  Budgell,  and  perhaps  Phillips. 
With  one  or  other  of  his  chief  companions  he  always  break- 
Daily  habits.  fasted.  He  studied  all  morning  ;  then  dined  at  a  tavern  ;  and 
went  afterward  to  Button's,  where  he  would  remain  five  or  six 
hours.  Button  had  been  a  servant  in  the  Countess  of  War- 
wick's family,  who,  under  the  patronage  of  Addison,  kept  a 
coffee-house  on  the  south  side  of  Russell  Street,  about  two 


Addison  and  Gay,  79 

doors  from  Covent  Garden.  Here  it  was  that  the  wits  of  the 
time  used  to  assemble.  It  is  said  when  Addison  had  suffered 
any  vexation  from  the  countess  he  withdrew  the  company 
from  Button's  house.  From  the  coffee-house  he  went  again  to 
a  tavern,  where  he  often  sate  late  and  drank  too  much  wine. 

Party  politics  had  no  place  in  his  Spectator,  Addi- 
son's  professed  object  was  to  banish  vice  and  ignorance 
out  of  the  territories  of  Great  Britain. 

The  minor  immoralities  that  he  attacked  were  such  as 
affectation,   presumption,   foppery,   fashionable  extrava-   human*"* 
gance,  upstart  vulgarity.     As  vices  of  the  same  class  he  b>mpathy- 
continued  to  satirize  the  rustic  manners   of  the  Tory 
squires    "who  had  never  seen  anything  greater  than 
themselves  for  twenty  years." 

" The  greatest  wits  I  have  conversed  with,"  he  says 
himself,  "were  men  eminent  for  their  humanity,"  and  it 
is  in  his  interest  and  sympathy  for  man's  infinite  capaci- 
ties that  the  charm  lies  of  his  essays.  It  is  this  which 
gives  them  the  detail  of  manners  wre  require  for  our 
subject. 

In  his  general  account  of  the  Spectator  Club,  Addison 
gives  us  a  vignette  of  Sir  Roger,  which  may  serve  as 
preface  to  his  papers. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman  of  Worcestershire,  of 
ancient  descent,  a  baronet,  his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  sir  Roger 
His  great-grandfather  was  inventor  of  that  famous  country-  s  Coverley. 
dance  which  is  called  after  him.  All  who  know  that  shire  are 
very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and  merits  of  Sir  Roger. 
He  is  a  gentleman  that  is  very  singular  in  his  behavior,  but  his 
singularities  proceed  from  his  good  sense,  and  are  contradic- 
tions to  the  manners  of  the  world  only  as  he  thinks  the  world 
is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this  humor  creates  him  no  enemies, 
for  he  does  nothing  with  sourness  or  obstinacy  ;  and  his  being 
unconfined  to  modes  and  forms  makes  him  but  the  readier  and 
more  capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know  him.  When 
he  is  in  town  he  lives  in  Soho  Square.  It  is  said  he  keeps 


8o      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

himself  a  bachelor,  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in  love  by  a  per- 
verse beautiful  widow  of  the  next  county  to  him.  Before  this 
disappointment  Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call  a  fine  gentleman, 
had  often  supped  with  my  Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George 
Etherege,  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming  to  town,  and 
kicked  Bully  Dawson  in  a  public  coffee-house,  for  calling  him 
youngster.  But,  being  ill  used  by  the  above-mentioned  widow, 
he  was  very  serious  for  a  year  and  a  half;  and  though,  his  tem- 
per being  naturally  jovial,  he  at  last  got  over  it,  he  grew 
His  character-  careless  of  himself  and  never  dressed  afterward.  He  continues 
to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the  same  cut  that  were  in 
fashion  at  the  time  of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humors, 
he  tells  us,  has  been  in  and  gut  twelve  times  since  he  first  wore 
it.  He  is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth  year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty  ; 
keeps  a  good  house  both  in  town  and  country  ;  a  great  lover  of 
mankind  ;  but  there  is  such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior  that 
he  is  rather  beloved  than  esteemed.  His  tenants  grow  rich, 
his  servants  look  satisfied,  all  the  young  women  profess  to  love 
him,  and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his  company ;  when  he 
comes  into  a  house,  he  calls  the  servants  by  their  names,  and 
talks  all  the  way  up-stairs  to  a  visit.  I  must  not  omit  that  Sir 
Roger  is  a  justice  of  the  quorum;  that  he  fills  the  chair  at  a 
quarter  session  with  great  abilities,  and  three  months  ago 
gained  universal  applause  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the 
game-act. 


Having  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir 
A  month  in  the  Roger  de  Coverley  to  pass  away  a  month  with  him  in  the 
Sir  Roger.  country,  I  last  week  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am  settled 

with  him  for  some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I  intend  to 
form  several  of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is 
very  well  acquainted  with  my  humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to 
bed  when  I  please  ;  dine  at  his  own  table  or  in  my  chamber,  as 
I  think  fit ;  sit  still  and  saying  nothing,  without  bidding  me  be 
merry.  When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  come  to  see  him, 
he  only  shows  me  at  a  distance.  As  I  have  been  walking  in 
his  fields,  I  have  observed  them  stealing  a  sight  of  me  over  an 
hedge,  and  have  heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to  let 
me  see  them,  for  that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  familv  because  it  con- 


Addison  and  Gay.  81 

sists  of  sober  and  staid  persons  ;  for  as  the  knight  is  the  best 
master  in  the  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants  ;  and  as 
he  is  beloved  by  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leav- 
ing him  :  by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and 
grown  old  with  their  master.  You  would  take  his  valet  de 
chambre  for  his  brother  ;  his  butler  is  gray-headed  ;  his  groom 
is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen  ;  and  his  coach- 
man has  the  looks  of  a  privy-councillor.  You  see  the  goodness 
of  the  master  even  in  the  house-dog,  and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is 
kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care  though  he  has  been  useless 
for  years. 

My  chief  companion  at  Sir  Roger's  is  a  venerable  man  who    Hj     .     .  . 
has  lived  in  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a  chaplain  about  thirty 
years.     He  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very 
much  in  the  old  knight's  esteem  ;  so  that  he  lives  in  the  family 
rather  as  a  relation  than  a  dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers  that  my  friend  Sir 
Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  an  humor- 
ist ;  and  that  his  virtues,  as  well  as  imperfections,  are,  as  it 
were,  tinged  by  a  certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them 
particularly  his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other 
men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  innocent  in 
itself,  so  it  renders  his  conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more 
delightful  than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would 
appear  in  their  common  and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was  walk- 
ing with  him  last  night,  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man 
whom  I  have  just  now  mentioned  ;  and,  without  staying  for 
my  answer,  told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with 
Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own  table  ;  for  which  reason  he  desired 
a  particular  friend  of  his  at  the  university  to  find  him  out  a 
clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense  than  much  learning,  of  a  good  A  man  of  plain 
aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a  sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  man 
that  understood  a  little  of  backgammon.  "My  friend  (says 
Sir  Roger)  found  me  out  this  gentleman,  who,  besides  the 
endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a  good  scholar, 
though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have  given  him  the  parsonage 
of  the  parish  ;  and  because  I  know  his  value,  have  settled  upon 
him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he  shall  find 
that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks 
he  is.'' 

I   cannot   forbear   relating  a  very  odd   accident,   because  it 


82      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

shows  how  desirous  all  who  know  Sir  Roger  are  of  giving  him 
incident  of  the  marks  of  their  esteem.  When  we  were  arrived  upon  the  verge 
Saracen's  Head.  Qf  ^jg  estate,  we  stopped  at  a  little  inn  to  rest  ourselves  and 
our  horses.  The  man  of  the  house  had,  it  seems,  been 
formerly  a  servant  in  the  knight's  family  ;  and  to  do  honor  to 
his  old  master,  had  some  time  since,  unknown  to  Sir  Roger, 
put  him  up  in  a  sign-post  before  the  door;  so  that  The  Knight's 
Head  had  hung  out  upon  the  road  about  a  week  before  he 
himself  knew  anything  of  the  matter.  As  soon  as  Sir  Roger 
was  acquainted  with  it,  finding  that  his  servant's  indiscretion 
proceeded  wholly  from  affection  and  good-will,  he  only  told 
him  that  he  had  made  him  too  high  a  compliment ;  and  when 
the  fellow  seemed  to  think  that  could  hardly  be,  added,  with  a 
more  decisive  look,  that  it  was  too  great  an  honor  for  any  man 
under  a  duke  ;  but  told  him,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  might  be 
altered  with  a  very  few  touches,  and  that  he  himself  would  be 
at  the  charge  of  it.  Accordingly  they  got  a  painter  by  the 
knight's  directions  to  add  a  pair  of  whiskers  to  the  face,  and  by 
a  little  aggravation  of  the  features  to  change  it  into  the  Sara- 
cen's Head.  I  should  not  have  known  this  story  had  not  the 
inn-keeper,  upon  Sir  Roger's  alighting,  told  him  in  my  hearing 
that  his  honor's  head  was  brought  back  last  night,  with  the 
alterations  that  he  had  ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon  this 
my  friend,  with  his  usual  cheerfulness,  related  the  particulars 
above  mentioned,  and  ordered  the  head  to  be  brought  into  the 
room.  I  could  not  forbear  discovering  greater  expressions  of 
mirth  than  ordinary  upon  the  appearance  of  this  monstrous 
face,  under  which,  notwithstanding  it  was  made  to  frown  and 
stare  in  the  most  extraordinary  manner,  I  could  still  discover  a 
distant  resemblance  of  my  old  friend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing 
me  laugh,  desired  me  to  tell  him  truly  if  I  thought  it  possible 
to  know  him  in  that  disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my  usual  silence ; 
but  upon  the  knight's  conjuring  me  to  tell  him  whether  it  was 
not  still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  I  composed  my 
countenance  in  the  best  manner  I  could  and  replied,  "that 
much  might  be  said  on  both  sides." 


I  was  this  morning  surprised  with  a  great  knocking  at  the 

Sir  Roger  in         door,  when  my  landlady's  daughter  came  up  to  me  and  told  me 

there   was   a   man  below  desired  to  speak   with   me.     Upon 


Addison  and  Gay.  83 

my  asking  her  who  it  was,  she  told  me  it  was  a  very  grave 
elderly  person,  but  that  she  did  not  know  his  name.  I  im- 
mediately went  down  to  him,  and  found  him  to  be  the  coach- 
man of  my  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  He  told  me 
that  his  master  came  to  town  last  night,  and  would  be  glad  to 
take  a  turn  with  me  in  Grays-Inn  walks.  As  I  was  wondering 
in  myself  what  had  brought  Sir  Roger  to  town,  not  having 
lately  received  any  letter  from  him,  he  told  me  that  his  master 
was  come  up  to  get  a  sight  of  Prince  Eugene,  and  that  he 
desired  I  would  immediately  meet  him. 

I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  curiosity  of  the  old  knight, 
though  I  did  not  much  wonder  at  it,  having  heard  him  say 
more  than  once  in  private  discourse  that  he  looked  upon 
Prince  Eugenio  (for  so  the  knight  always  calls  him)  to  be 
a  greater  man  than  Scanderbeg. 

I  was  no  sooner  come  into  Grays-Inn  walks  but  I  heard  my 
friend  upon  the  terrace  hemming  twice  or  thrice  to  himself 
with  great  vigor,  for  he  loves  to  clear  his  pipes  in  good  air  (to 
make  use  of  his  own  phrase),  and  is  not  a  little  pleased  with 
any  one  who  takes  notice  of  the  strength  which  he  still  exerts 
in  his  morning  hems. 

I  was  touched  with  a  secret  joy  at  the  sight  of  the  good  old 
man,  who  before  he  saw  me  was  engaged  in  conversation  with 
a  beggar-man  that  had  asked  an  alms  of  him.  I  could  hear  my 
friend  chide  him  for  not  finding  out  some  work  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  saw  him  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  give  him 
sixpence. 

Our  salutations  were  very  hearty  on  both  sides,  consisting  of 
many  kind  shakes  of  the  hand  and  several  affectionate  looks 
which  we  cast  upon  one  another.  .  .  .  Among  other  pieces 
of  news  which  the  knight  brought  from  his  county  seat,  he 

informed  me  that  he  had  killed  eight  fat  hogs  for  this  Christ- 

.  .       ,  .  ,.,  His  Christmas 

mas  season,  that  he  had  dealt  about  his  chines  very  liberally   generosity. 

amongst  his  neighbors,  and  .that  in  particular  he  had  sent  a  string 
of  hog's  puddings  with  a  pack  of  cards  to  every  poor  family  in 
the  parish.  "I  have  often  thought,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "it 
happens  very  well  that  Christmas  should  fall  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  winter.  It  is  the  most  dead,  uncomfortable  time  of  the 
year,  when  the  poor  people  would  suffer  very  much  from  their 
poverty  and  cold  if  they  had  not  good  cheer,  warm  fires,  and 
Christmas  gambols  to  support  them.  I  love  to  rejoice  their 


84       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

poor  hearts  at  this  season,  and  to  see  the  whole  village  merry 
in  my  great  hall.  I  allow  a  double  quantity  of  malt  to  my 
small  beer,  and  set  it  a  running  for  twelve  days  to  every  one 
that  calls  for  it.  I  have  always  a  piece  of  cold  beef  and  a 
mince-pie  upon  the  table,  and  am  wonderfully  pleased  to  see 
my  tenants  pass  away  a  whole  evening  in  playing  their  in- 
nocent tricks." 

The  knight  then  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  Prince  Eugene  ;  and 
Prince  Eugene.  ,  .  ,  .  .  . 

made  me  promise  to  get  him  a  stand  in  some  convenient  place 

where  he  might  have  a  full  sight  of  that  extraordinary  man, 
whose  presence  does  so  much  honor  to  the  British  nation.  He 
dwelt  very  long  on  the  praises  of  this  great  general,  and  I 
found  that  since  I  was  with  him  in  the  country  he  had  drawn 
many  observations  together  out  of  his  reading  in  Baker's 
Chronicle,  and  other  authors,  who  always  lie  in  his  hall 
window,  which  very  much  redound  to  the  honor  of  this  prince. 

He  asked  me  if  I  would  smoke  a  pipe  with  him  over  a  dish 
of  coffee  at  Squire's.  As  I  love  the  old  man,  I  take  a  delight 
in  complying  with  even-thing  that  is  agreeable  to  him,  and 
accordingly  waited  on  him  to  the  coffee-house,  where  his 
venerable  figure  drew  upon  us  the  eyes  of  the  whole  room. 
He  had  no  sooner  seated  himself  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
high  table  but  he  called  for  a  clean  pipe,  a  paper  of  tobacco, 
a  dish  of  coffee,  a  wax  candle,  and  the  Supplement,  with  such 
room6  coffee"  an  air  °f  cheerfulness  and  good  humor  that  all  the  boys  in 
the  coffee-room  (who  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  serving 
him)  were  at  once  employed  on  his  several  errands,  insomuch 
that  nobody  else  could  come  at  a  dish  of  tea  till  the  knight  had 
got  all  his  conveniences  about  him. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  my  chamber,  and  thinking  on  a  subject 
for  my  next  Spectator,  I  heard  two  or  three  irregular  bounces 
at  my  landlady's  door,  and  upon  the  opening  of  it,  a  loud 
cheerful  voice  inquiring  whether  the  philosopher  was  at  home. 
The  child  who  went  to  the  door  answered  very  innocently  that 
he  did  not  lodge  there.  I  immediately  recollected  that  it  was 
my  good  friend  Sir  Roger's  voice  ;  and  that  I  had  promised  to 
Spring  Garden,  go  with  him  on  the  water  to  Spring  Garden,  in  case  it  proved  a 


Addison  and  Gay.  85 

good  evening.  The  knight  put  me  in  mind  of  my  promise 
from  the  staircase,  but  told  me  that  if  I  was  speculating,  he 
would  stay  below  till  I  had  done.  Upon  my  coming  down, 
I  found  all  the  children  of  the  family  got  about  my  old  friend, 
and  my  landlady  herself,  who  is  a  notable  prating  gossip, 
engaged  in  a  conference  with  him ;  being  mightily  pleased  with 
his  stroking  her  little  boy  upon  the  head  and  bidding  him  be  a 
good  child,  and  mind  his  book. 

We  were  no  sooner  come  to  the  Temple-stairs  but  we  were 
surrounded  with  a  crowd  of  watermen,  offering  their  respective 
services.      Sir    Roger,   after  having  looked  about  him  very    The  waterman 
attentively,    spied  one  with  a  wooden  leg,    and  immediately   \\-oodenleg. 
gave  him  orders  to  get  his  boat  ready.     As  we  were  walking 
toward  it,  "You  must  know  (says  Sir  Roger),  I  never  make 
use  of  anybody  to  row  me  that  has  not  either  lost  a  leg  or 
an  arm.     I  would  rather  bate  him  a  few  strokes  of  his  oar  than 
not  employ  an  honest  man  that  has  been   wounded  in  the 
queen's  service." 

Vauxhall  Gardens  were  long  a  place  of  popular  resort. 
They  were  laid  out  in  1661,  and  were  at  first  known  as 
the  New  Spring  Gardens  at  Fox  Hall,  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  Old  Spring  Gardens  at  Whitehall.  The 
gardens  having  sunk  in  character  were  finally  closed  in 
1859  and  the  site  is  now  built  over. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  Spring  Garden,  which  is  exquisitely 
pleasant  at  this  time  of  year.  When  I  considered  the  fragrancy 
of  the  walks  and  bowers,  with  the  choirs  of  birds  that  sung 
upon  the  trees,  and  the  loose  tribe  of  people  that  walked  under 
their  shades,  I  could  not  but  look  upon  the  place  as  a  kind 
of  Mahometan  paradise.  Sir  Roger  told  me  it  put  him  in  mind 
of  a  little  coppice  by  his  house  in  the  country,  which  his  chap- 
lain used  to  call  an  aviary  of  nightingales. 

We  concluded  our  walk  with  a  glass  of  Burton  ale  and  a 
slice  of  hung-beef.  When  we  had  done  eating  ourselves,  the 
knight  called  a  waiter  to  him,  and  bid  him  carry  the  remainder 
to  a  waterman  that  had  but  one  leg.  I  perceived  the  fellow 
stared  upon  him  at  the  oddness  of  the  message,  and  was  going 


86      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

to  be  saucy  ;  upon  which  I  ratified  the  knight's  commands  with 
a  peremptory  look,  and  we  left  the  garden. 

When  Addison  and  the  others  were  tired  of  writing 
RogS°fSir       about  him,  the  public   received   the   ill   news   that   Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  was  dead.     The  Spectator  says  : 

I  have  a  letter  from  the  butler  who  took  so  much  care  of  me 
last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  knight's  house.  I  shall  give  my 
reader  a  copy  of  his  letter,  without  any  alteration  or  diminu- 
tion. 

"HONORED  SIR  :  Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  master's 
good  friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you  the  melancholy 
news  of  his  death,  which  has  afflicted  the  whole  country,  as 
well  as  his  poor  servants,  who  loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than 
bmle^upon  it.6  we  did  our  lives.  I  am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last 
country  sessions,  where  he  would  go  to  see  justice  done  to  a 
poor  widow  woman  and  her  fatherless  children,  that  had  been 
wronged  by  a  neighboring  gentleman  ;  for  you  know,  my  good 
master  was  always  the  poor  man's  friend.  Upon  his  coming 
home,  the  first  complaint  he  made  was  that  he  had  lost  his 
roast-beef  stomach,  not  being  able  to  touch  a  sirloin,  which 
was  served  up  according  to  custom  ;  and  you  know  he  used  to 
take  great  delight  in  it.  From  that  time  forward  he  grew 
worse  and  worse,  but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  last.  In- 
deed we  were  once  in  great  hopes  of  his  recover}',  upon  a  kind 
message  that  was  sent  him  from  the  widow  lady  whom  he  had 
made  love  to  the  forty  last  years  of  his  life  ;  but  this  only 
proved  a  lightning  before  his  death.  He  has  bequeathed  to 
this  lady,  as  a  token  of  his  love,  a  great  pearl  necklace  and  a 
couple  of  silver  bracelets  set  with  jewels,  which  belonged  to  my 
good  old  lady  his  mother  ;  he  has  bequeathed  the  fine  white 
gelding,  that  he  used  to  ride  a  hunting  upon,  to  his  chaplain, 
because  he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him,  and  has  left  you 
all  his  books.  He  has,  moreover,  bequeathed  to  the  chaplain 
a  very  pretty  tenement  with  good  lands  about  it.  It  being  a 
very  cold  day  when  he  made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourning,  to 
every  man  in  the  parish  a  great  frieze  coat,  and  to  every 
woman  a  black  riding-hood.  It  was  a  most  moving  sight  to  see 
him  take  leave  of  his  poor  servants,  commending  us  all  for  our 
fidelity,  whilst  we  were  not  able  to  speak  a  word  for  weeping. 


Addison  and  Gay.  87 

He  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  directions,  among  the 

family  of  the   Coverlies,  on  the  left  hand  of  his  father,  Sir    His  burial. 

Arthur.     The  coffin  was  carried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the 

pall  held  up  by  six  of  the  qtioruin  ;  the  whole  parish  followed 

the  corpse  with  heavy  hearts,  and  in  their  mourning  suits  ;  the 

men  in  frieze  and  the  women  in  riding-hoods.     It  was  the 

melancholies!  day  for  the  poor  people  that    ever  happened 

in  Worcestershire.     This  being  all  from, 

"  Honored  sir,  your  most  sorrowful  servant, 

"EDWARD  BISCUIT." 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  butler's  manner  of 
writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our  good  old  friend  that 
upon  the  reading  of  it  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  club. 

Here  end   my  selections  from  Sir  Roger.     What  fol-   other 
lows  are  other  papers  from  the   Spectator,  ascribed  to  papers."^ 
Addison. 

PARTY  PATCHES. 

About  the  middle  of  last  winter  I  went  to  see  an  opera  at  the 
theater  in  the  Haymarket,  where  I  could  not  but  take  notice  of 
two  parties  of  very  fine  women,  that  had  placed  themselves  in 
the  opposite  side  boxes,  and  seemed  drawn  up  in  a  kind  of 
battle-array  one  against  another.  After  a  short  survey  of  them, 
I  found  that  they  were  patched  differently  ;  the  faces  on  one 
hand  being  spotted  on  the  right  side  of  the  forehead,  and  those 
upon  the  other  on  the  left :  I  quickly  perceived  that  they  cast 
hostile  glances  upon  one  another  ;  and  that  their  patches  were 
placed  in  those  different  situations  as  party  signals  to  distin- 
guish friends  from  foes.  In  the  middle  boxes,  between  those 
two  opposite  bodies,  were  several  ladies  who  patched  indiffer- 
ently on  both  sides  of  their  faces,  and  seemed  to  sit  there  with 
no  other  intention  but  to  see  the  opera.  Upon  inquiry  I  found 
that  the  body  of  Amazons  on  my  right  hand  were  Whigs  and 
those  on  my  left  Tories  ;  and  that  those  who  had  placed  them- 
selves in  the  middle  boxes  were  a  neutral  party,  whose  faces 
had  not  yet  declared  themselves.  These  last,  however,  as  I  after- 
ward found,  diminished  daily,  and  took  their  party  with  one  side 
or  the  other  ;  insomuch  that  I  observed  in  several  of  them,  the 
patches,  which  were  before  dispersed  equally,  are  now  all  gone 
over  to  the  Whig  or  the  Torv  side  of  the  face. 


88       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

When  I  was  in  the  theater  the  time  above  mentioned  I  had 
Tory  and  Whig,  the  curiosity  to  count  the  patches  on  both  sides,  and  found  the 
Tory  patches  to  be  about  twenty  stronger  than  the  Whig  ;  but 
to  make  amends  for  this  small  inequality,  I  the  next  morning 
found  the  whole  puppet-show  filled  with  faces  spotted  after  the 
Whiggish  manner.  Whether  or  no  the  ladies  had  retreated 
hither  in  order  to  rally  their  forces,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  the  next 
night  they  came  in  so  great  a  body  to  the  opera,  that  they  out- 
numbered the  enemy. 

This  account  of  party  patches  will,  I  am  afraid,  appear 
improbable  to  those  who  live  at  a  distance  from  the  fashionable 
world  ;  but  as  it  is  a  distinction  of  a  very  singular  nature,  and 
what  perhaps  may  never  meet  with  a  parallel,  I  think  I  should 
not  have  discharged  the  office  of  a  faithful  Spectator  had  I  not 
recorded  it. 

When  the  Romans  were  pressed  with  a  foreign  enemy  the 

Roman  ladies  voluntarily  contributed  all  their  rings  and  jewels  to  assist 

3ns>  the  government  under  the  public  exigence,  which  appeared 

so  laudable  an  action  in  the  eyes  of  their  country-men,  that  from 

thenceforth  it  was  permitted  by  a  law  to  pronounce  public 

orations  at  the  funeral  of  a  woman  in  praise  of  the  deceased 

person,  which  till  that  time  was  peculiar  to  men. 

Would  our  English  ladies,  instead  of  sticking  on  a  patch 
against  those  of  their  own  country,  show  themselves  so  truly 
public-spirited  as  to  sacrifice  every  one  her  necklace  against 
the  common  enemy,  what  decrees  ought  not  to  be  made  in 
favor  of  them  ! 

Since  I  am  recollecting  upon  this  subject  such  passages 
as  occur  to  memory  out  of  ancient  authors,  I  cannot  omit 
a  sentence  in  the  celebrated  funeral  oration  of  Pericles, 
which  he  made  in  honor  of  those  brave  Athenians  that  were 
slain  in  a  fight  with  the  Lacedaemonians.  After  having  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  several  ranks  and  orders  of  his 
countrymen,  and  shown  them  how  they  should  behave  them- 
selves in  the  public  cause,  he  turns  to  the  female  part  of 
his  audience;  "And  as  for  you  (says  he),  I  shall  advise  you 
in  a  very  few  words  :  aspire  only  to  those  virtues  that  are 
peculiar  to  your  sex  ;  follow  your  natural  modesty,  and  think 
it  your  greatest  commendation  not  to  be  talked  of  one  way  or 
other." 


Addison  and  Gay.  89 

THE  CAT-CALL. 

I  have  lately  received  the  following  letter  from  a  country 
gentleman  : 

"  MR.  SPECTATOR  :  The  night  before  I  left  London  I  went 
to  see  a  play,  called  'The  Humorous  Lieutenant.'  Upon  the 
rising  of  the  curtain  I  was  very  much  surprised  with  the  great 
consort  of  cat-calls  which  was  exhibited  that  evening,  and 
began  to  think  with  myself  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
gone  to  a  music-meeting  instead  of  the  play-house.  It  ap- 
peared, indeed,  a  little  odd  to  me  to  see  so  many  persons  of 
quality  of  both  sexes  assembled  together  at  a  kind  of  cater- 
wauling ;  for  I  cannot  look  upon  that  performance  to  have  been 
anything  better,  whatever  the  musicians  themselves  might 
think  of  it.  As  I  had  no  acquaintance  in  the  house  to  ask  ques- 
tions of,  and  was  forced  to  go  out  of  town  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, I  could  not  learn  the  secret  of  this  matter.  What  I  would 
therefore  desire  of  you,  is,  to  give  some  account  of  this  strange 
instrument,  which  I  found  the  company  called  a  cat-call ;  and 
particularly  to  let  me  know  whether  it  be  a  piece  of  music 
lately  come  from  Italy.  For  my  own  part,  to  be  free  with  you, 
I  would  rather  hear  an  English  fiddle  ;  though  I  durst  not  show 
my  dislike  whilst  I  was  in  the  play-house,  it  being  my  chance  to 
sit  the  very  next  man  to  one  of  the  performers. 

"I  am,  sir, 
"  Your  most  affectionate  friend  and  servant, 

"JOHN  SHALLOW,  Esq." 

In  compliance  with  Squire  Shallow's  request,  I  design  this 
paper  as  a  dissertation  upon  the  cat-call.  In  order  to  make 
myself  a  master  of  the  subject,  I  purchased  one  the  beginning 
of  last  week,  though  not  without  great  difficulty,  being  in- 
formed at  two  or  three  toy-shops  that  the  players  had  lately 
bought  them  all  up.  I  have  since  consulted  many  learned 
antiquaries  in  relation  to  its  original,  and  find  them  very  much 
divided  among  themselves  upon  that  particular.  A  Fellow  of 
the  Royal  Society,  who  is  my  good  friend  and  a  great  profi- 
cient in  the  mathematical  part  of  music,  concludes  from  the 
simplicity  of  its  make  and  the  uniformity  of  its  sound  that  the 
cat-call  is  older  than  any  of  the  inventions  of  Jubal.  He  juhal. 
observes  very  well  that  musical  instruments  took  their  first  rise 


90      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

from  the  notes  of  birds  and  other  melodious  animals  ;  and 
what,  says  he,  was  more  natural  than  for  the  first  ages  of  man- 
kind to  imitate  the  voice  of  a  cat  that  lived  under  the  same 
roof  with  them  ?  he  added,  that  the  cat  had  contributed  more 
to  harmony  than  any  other  animal,  as  we  are  not  only  be- 
holden to  her  for  this  wind-instrument,  but  for  our  string  music 
in  general. 

Another  virtuoso  of  my  acquaintance  will  not  allow  the 
cat-call  to  be  older  than  Thespis,  and  is  apt  to  think  it  ap- 
peared in  the  world  soon  after  the  ancient  comedy ;  for  which 
reason  it  has  still  a  place  in  our  dramatic  entertainments  ;  nor 
must  I  here  omit  what  a  curious  gentleman,  who  is  lately 
returned  from  his  travels,  has  more  than  once  assured  me, 
namely,  that  there  was  lately  dug  up  at  Rome  the  statue  of 
a  Momus,  who  holds  an  instrument  in  his  right  hand  very 
much  resembling  our  modern  cat-call. 

There  are  others  who  ascribe  this  invention  to  Orpheus,  and 
look  upon  the  cat-call  to  be  one  of  those  instruments  which 
that  famous  musician  made  use  of  to  draw  the  beasts  about 
him.  It  is  certain  that  the  roasting  of  a  cat  does  not  call 
together  a  greater  audience  of  that  species  than  this  instrument 
if  dexterously  played  upon  in  proper  time  and  place. 

But  notwithstanding  these  various  and  learned  conjectures,  I 
cannot  forbear  thinking  that  the  cat-call  is  originally  a  piece  of 
English  music.  Its  resemblance  to  the  voice  of  some  of  our 
British  songsters,  as  well  as  to  the  use  of  it,  which  is  peculiar 
to  our  nation,  confirms  me  in  this  opinion.  It  has  at  least 
received  great  improvements  among  us,  whether  we  consider 
the  instrument  itself  or  those  several  quavers  and  graces 
which  are  thrown  into  the  playing  of  it.  Every  one  might 
be  sensible  of  this  who  heard  that  remarkable,  over-grown  cat- 
call which  was  placed  in  the  center  of  the  pit,  and  presided  over 
all  the  rest,  at  the  celebrated  performance  lately  exhibited  in 
Drury  Lane. 

LONDON  CRIES. 

There  is  nothing  which  more  astonishes  a  foreigner  and 
frights  a  country  squire  than  the  cries  of  London.  My  good 
friend  Sir  Roger  often  declares  that  he  cannot  get  them  out  of 
his  head  or  go  to  sleep  for  them,  the  first  week  that  he  is 
in  town.  On  the  contrary,  Will  Honeycomb  calls  them  the 


Addison  and  Gay.  91 

Ramage  de  la  Ville,  and  prefers  them  to  the  sounds  of  larks 
and  nightingales,  with  all  the  music  of  the  fields  and  woods.  I 
have  lately  received  a  letter  from  some  very  odd  fellow  upon 
this  subject,  which  I  shall  leave  with  my  reader,  without  saying 
anything  further  of  it. 

"SiR:  I  am  a  man  out  of  all  business,  and  would  willingly 
turn  my  head  to  anything  for  an  honest  livelihood.  I  have 
invented  several  projects  for  raising  many  millions  of  money 
without  burthening  the  subject,  but  I  cannot  get  the  parlia- 
ment to  listen  to  me,  who  look  upon  me,  forsooth,  as  a  crack 
and  a  projector;  so  that  despairing  to  enrich  either  myself  or 
my  country  by  this  public  spiritedness,  I  would  make  some 
proposals  to  you  relating  to  a  design  which  I  have  very  much 
at  heart,  and  which  may  procure  me  an  handsome  subsistence, 
if  you  will  be  pleased  to  recommend  it  to  the  cities  of  London 
and  Westminster. 

"The  post  I  would  aim  at  is  to  be  Comptroller-general  of  the 
London  Cries,  which  are  at  present  under  no  manner  of  rules   Comptroller- 
or  discipline.     I  think  I  am  pretty  well  qualified  for  this  place,    8 
as  being  a  man  of  very  strong  lungs,  of  great  insight  into  all  the 
branches  of  our  British  trades  and  manufactures,  and  of  a  com- 
petent skill  in  music. 

"The  cries  of  London  may  be  divided  into  vocal  and  instru- 
mental. As  for  the  latter,  they  are  at  present  under  a  very 
great  disorder.  A  freeman  of  London  has  the  privilege  of  dis- 
turbing a  whole  street,  for  an  hour  together,  with  the  twankling 
of  a  brass  kettle  or  of  a  frying  pan.  The  watchman's  thump  at 
midnight  startles  us  in  our  beds  as  much  as  the  breaking  in  of 
a  thief.  I  would  therefore  propose  that  no  instrument  of  this 
nature  should  be  made  use  of  which  I  have  not  tuned  and 
licensed,  after  having  carefully  examined  in  what  manner  it 
may  affect  the  ears  of  her  majesty's  liege  subjects. 

"It  is  a  great  imperfection  in  our  London  cries  that  there 
is  no  just  time  nor  measure  observed  in  them.  Our  news  Time  and 
should,  indeed,  be  published  in  a  very  quick  time,  because  it  is 
a  commodity  that  will  not  keep  cold.  It  should  not,  however, 
be  cried  with  the  same  precipitation  as  '  fire  '  ;  yet  this  is  gener- 
ally the  case.  A  bloody  battle  alarms  the  town  from  one  end 
to  another  in  an  instant.  Every  motion  of  the  French  is 
published  in  so  great  a  hurry  that  one  would  think  the  enemy 
were  at  our  gates.  This  likewise  I  would  take  upon  me  to 


92       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

regulate  in  such  a  manner  that  there  should  be  some  distinc- 
tion made  between  the  spreading  of  a  victory,  a  march,  or  an 
encampment,  a  Dutch,  a  Portugal,  or  a  Spanish  mail.  Nor 
must  I  omit  under  this  head  those  excessive  alarms  with  which 
several  boisterous  rustics  infest  our  streets  in  turnip  season ; 
and  which  are  more  inexcusable,  because  these  are  wares 
which  are  in  no  danger  of  cooling  upon  their  hands." 

THE  NEWSPAPER. 

This  extract  goes  to  show  that  human  nature,  after 
all,  is  not  so  much  changed  as  we  might  infer  from  other 
traits  of  our  ancestors. 

"  MR.  SPECTATOR  :    You  must  have  observed  that  men  who 

The  newspaper,  frequent  coffee-houses  and  delight  in  news  are  pleased  with 
everything  that  is  matter  of  fact,  so  it  be  what  they  have  not  heard 
before.  A  victory  or  a  defeat  are  equally  agreeable  to  them. 
The  shutting  of  a  cardinal's  mouth  pleases  them  one  post,  and 
the  opening  of  it  another.  They  are  glad  to  hear  the  French 
court  is  removed  to  Marli,  and  are  afterward  as  much  delighted 
with  its  return  to  Versailles.  They  read  the  advertisements 
with  the  same  curiosity  as  the  articles  of  public  news  ;  and  are 
as  pleased  to  hear  of  a  piebald  horse  that  is  strayed  out  of  a 
field  near  Islington  as  of  a  whole  troop  that  has  been  engaged 
in  any  foreign  adventure.  In  short,  they  have  a  relish  for 
everything  that  is  news,  let  the  matter  of  it  be  what  it  will ;  or 
to  speak  more  properly,  they  are  men  of  a  voracious  appetite, 
but  no  taste.  Now,  sir,  since  the  great  fountain  of  news,  I 
mean  the  war,  is  very  near  being  dried  up  ;  and  since  these 
gentlemen  have  contracted  such  an  inextinguishable  thirst  after 
it ;  I  have  taken  their  case  and  my  own  into  consideration,  and 
have  thought  of  a  project  which  may  turn  to  the  advantage  of 
us  both.  I  have  thoughts  of  publishing  a  daily  paper,  which 
shall  comprehend  in  it  all  the  most  remarkable  occurrences  in 

P?ence"tel~  every  little  town,  village,  and  hamlet,  that  lie  within  ten  miles 
of  London,  or,  in  other  words,  within  the  verge  of  the  penny- 
post.  I  have  pitched  upon  this  scene  of  intelligence  for  two 
reasons  :  first,  because  the  carriage  of  letters  will  be  very  cheap  ; 
and  secondly,  because  I  may  receive  them  every  day.  By  this 
means  my  readers  will  have  their  news  fresh  and  fresh,  and 
many  worthy  citizens  who  cannot  sleep  with  any  satisfaction  at 


Addison  and  Gay.  93 

present,  for  want  of  being  informed  how  the  world  goes,  may 
go  to  bed  contentedly,  it  being  my  design  to  put  out  my  paper 
every  night  at  nine-a-clock  precisely.  I  have  already  estab- 
lished correspondences  in  these  several  places,  and  received 
very  good  intelligence." 

TRIAL  OF  PUNCTILIOS.    I. 

The  proceedings  of  the  Court  of  Honor,  held  in  Sheer  Lane,  on 
Monday,  the  2oth  of  November,  1710,  before  Isaac  Bicker- 
staff  e,  Esq.,  Censor  of  Great  Britain. 

Peter  Plumb,  of  London,   merchant,   was   indicted  by  the 
Honorable  Mr.  Thomas  Gules,  of  Gule  Hall,  in  the  county  of 

Salop,  for  that  the  said  Peter  Plumb  did  in  Lombard  Street, 

Trial  of 
London,  between  the  hours  of  two  and  three  in  the  afternoon,    punctilios. 

meet  the  said  Mr.  Thomas  Gules,  and  after  a  short  salutation, 
put  on  his  hat,  value  fivepence,  while  the  Honorable  Mr. 
Gules  stood  bare-headed  for  the  space  of  two  seconds.  It 
w^s  further  urged  against  the  criminal  that,  during  his  dis- 
course with  the  prosecutor,  he  feloniously  stole  the  wall  of 
him,  having  clapped  his  back  against  it  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  was  impossible  for  Mr.  Gules  to  recover  it  again  at  his 
taking  leave  of  him.  The  prosecutor  alleged  that  he  was  the 
cadet  of  a  very  ancient  family,  and  that,  according  to  the 
principles  of  all  the  younger  brothers  of  the  said  family,  he 
had  never  sullied  himself  with  business,  but  had  chosen 
rather  to  starve  like  a  man  of  honor  than  do  anything 
beneath  his  quality.  He  produced  several  witnesses  that  he 
had  never  employed  himself  beyond  the  twisting  of  a  whip,  or 
the  making  of  a  pair  of  nutcrackers,  in  which  he  only  worked 
for  his  diversion,  in  order  to  make  a  present  now  and  then  to 
his  friends.  The  prisoner  being  asked  what  he  could  say  for 
himself,  cast  several  reflections  upon  the  Honorable  Mr.  Reflections  on 
Gules  :  as,  that  he  was  not  worth  a  groat ;  that  nobody  in  the  ' 
city  would  trust  him  for  a  halfpenny  ;  that  he  owed  him  money 
which  he  had  promised  to  pay  him  several  times,  but  never 
kept  his  word  :  and  in  short,  that  he  was  an  idle,  beggarly 
fellow,  and  of  no  use  to  the  public.  This  sort  of  language 
was  very  severely  reprimanded  by  the  Censor,  who  told  the 
criminal  that  he  spoke  in  contempt  of  the  court,  and  that  he 
should  be  proceeded  against  for  contumacy  if  he  did  not 


94       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

change  his  style.  The  prisoner,  therefore,  desired  to  be  heard 
by  his  counsel,  who  urged  in  his  defense,  "That  he  put  on  his 
hat  through  ignorance,  and  took  the  wall  by  accident."  They 
likewise  produced  several  witnesses  that  he  made  several 
motions  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  which  are  generally  under- 
stood as  an  invitation  to  the  person  we  talk  with  to  be 
covered  ;  and  that  the  gentleman  not  taking  the  hint,  he  was 
forced  to  put  on  his  hat,  as  being  troubled  with  a  cold.  There 
was  likewise  an  Irishman  who  deposed  that  he  had  heard  him 
cough  three  and  twenty  times  that  morning.  And  as  for  the 
wall,  it  was  alleged  that  he  had  taken  it  inadvertently,  to  save 
himself  from  a  shower  of  rain  which  was  then  falling.  The 
Verdict  of  the  Censor  having  consulted  the  men  of  honor  who  sat  at  his 
right  hand  on  the  bench,  found  they  were  of  opinion  that  the 
defense  made  by  the  prisoner's  counsel  did  rather  aggravate 
than  extenuate  his  crime  ;  that  the  motions  and  intimations  of 
the  hat  were  a  token  of  superiority  in  conversation,  and  there- 
fore not  to  be  used  by  the  criminal  to  a  man  of  the  prosecutor's 
quality,  who  was  likewise  vested  with  a  double  title  to  the 
wall  at  the  time  of  their  conversation,  both  as  it  was  the  upper 
hand,  and  as  it  was  a  shelter  from  the  weather.  .  .  .  The 
Censor,  Mr.  Bickerstaffe,  finally  pronounced  sentence  against 
the  criminal  in  the  following  manner  :  That  his  hat,  which  was 
the  instrument  of  offense,  should  be  forfeited  to  the  court ; 
that  the  criminal  should  go  to  the  warehouse  from  whence  he 
came,  and  thence,  as  occasion  should  require,  proceed  to  the 
Exchange,  or  Garraway's  Coffee-house,  in  what  manner  he 
pleased  ;  but  that  neither  he,  nor  any  other  family  of  the 
Plumbs,  should  hereafter  appear  in  the  streets  of  London,  out 
of  the  coaches,  that  so  the  footway  might  be  left  open  and 
undisturbed  for  their  betters. 

TRIAL  OF  PUNCTILIOS.     II. 

The  Lady  Townly  brought  an  action  of  debt  against  Mrs. 

I  ndv  Townly's     Flambeau,  for  that  Mrs.  Flambeau  had  not  been  to  see  the  said 

action.  Lady  Townly,  and  wish  her  joy,  since  her  marriage  with  Sir 

Ralph,  notwithstanding  she,  the  said  Lady  Townly,  had  paid 

Mrs.  Flambeau  a  visit  upon  her  first  coming  to  town.     It  was 

urged  in  the  behalf  of  the  defendant  that  the  plaintiff  had  never 

given  her  any  regular  notice  of  her  being  in  town  ;  that  the 


Addison  and  Gay.  95 

visit  she  alleged  had  been  made  on  a  Monday,  which  she  knew 

was  a  day  on  which  Mrs.  Flambeau  was  always  abroad,  having 

set  aside  that  only  day  in  the  week  to  mind  the  affairs   of 

her  family ;  that  the  servant  who  inquired  whether  she  was  at 

home  did  not  give  the  visiting  knock  ;  that  it  was  not  between 

the  hours  of  five  and  eight  in  the  evening  ;  that  there  were  no 

candles  lighted  up  ;  that  it  was  not  on  Mrs.  Flambeau's  day  ;    Essential  points 

and,  in  short,  that  there  was  not  one  of  the  essential  points 

observed  that  constitute  a  visit.     She  further  proved  by  her 

porter's  book,  which  was  produced  in  court,  that  she  had  paid 

the  Lady  Townly  a  visit  on  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  March, 

just  before  her  leaving  the  town,  in  the  year  1709-10,  for  which 

she  was  still  creditor  to  the  said  Lady  Townly.     To  this  the 

plaintiff  only  replied  that  she  was  now  only  under  covert,  and 

not  liable  to  any  debts  contracted   when   she  was  a  single 

woman.    Mr.  Bickerstaffe  finding  the  cause  to  be  very  intricate, 

and  that  several  points  of  honor  were  likely  to  arise  in  it, 

he  deferred  giving  judgment  upon  it  till  the  next  session  day, 

at  which  time  he  ordered  the  ladies  on  his  left  hand  to  present 

to  the  court  a  table  of  all  the  laws  relating  to  visits. 

TRIAL  OF  PUNCTILIOS.     III. 

Oliver  Bluff  and  Benjamin  Browbeat  were  indicted  for  going  Q,.  r  B]  ff 
to  fight  a  duel  since  the  erection  of  the  Court  of  Honor.  It  and  Benjamin 
appeared  that  they  were  both  taken  up  in  the  street  as  they 
passed  by  the  court,  in  their  way  to  the  fields  behind  Montague 
House.  The  criminals  would  answer  nothing  for  themselves 
but  that  they  were  going  to  execute  a  challenge  which  had 
been  made  above  a  week  before  the  Court  of  Honor  was 
erected.  The  Censor  finding  some  reasons  to  suspect  (by  the 
sturdiness  of  their  behavior)  that  they  were  not  so  very  brave 
as  they  would  have  the  court  believe  them,  ordered  them  both 
to  be  searched  by  the  grand  jury,  who  found  a  breast-plate 
upon  the  one  and  two  quires  of  paper  upon  the  other.  The 
breast-plate  was  immediately  ordered  to  be  hung  upon  a  peg 
over  Mr.  Bickerstaffe 's  tribunal,  and  the  paper  to  be  laid  upon 
the  table  for  the  use  of  his  clerk.  He  then  ordered  the  crimi- 
nals to  button  up  their  bosoms,  and,  if  they  pleased,  proceed  to 
their  duel.  Upon  which  they  both  went  very  quietly  out  of  the 
court  and  retired  to  their  respective  lodgings. 


96       Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

This  extract  shows,  like  other  signs  of  the  times,  that 
Practice  of  the  practice  of  dueling  was  already  become  a  subject  of 
ridicule,  and  on  the  decline.  The  topic  was  under  dis- 
cussion at  this  period,  as  might  be  seen  in  a  long  disser- 
tation about  it  by  Richardson,  through  the  mouth  of  his 
favorite  hero,  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  which  is,  however, 
too  long  (and  too  dull)  to  quote. 

COUNTRY  MANNERS. 

The  first  and  most  obvious  reflections  which  arise  in  a  man 
Country  man-  wno  changes  the  city  for  the  country,  are  upon  the  different 
ners-  manners  of  the  people  whom  he  meets  with  in  those  two  dif- 

ferent scenes  of  life.  By  manners  I  do  not  mean  morals,  but 
behavior  and  good  breeding,  as  they  show  themselves  in  the 
town  and  in  the  country. 

And  here,  in  the  first  place,  I  must  observe  a  very  great  revo- 
lution that  has  happened  in  this  article  of  good  breeding. 
Several  obliging  deferences,  condescensions,  and  submissions, 
with  many  outward  forms  and  ceremonies  that  accompany 
them,  were  first  of  all  brought  up  among  the  politer  part  of 
mankind,  who  lived  in  courts  and  cities,  and  distinguished 
themselves  from  the  rustic  part  of  the  species  (who  on  all 
occasions  acted  bluntly  and  naturally)  by  such  a  mutual  com- 
plaisance and  intercourse  of  civilities.  These  forms  of  conver- 
sation by  degrees  multiplied  and  grew  troublesome ;  the 
modish  world  found  too  great  a  constraint  in  them,  and  have 
therefore  thrown  most  of  them  aside.  Conversation,  like  the 
Romish  religion,  was  so  encumbered  with  show  and  ceremony 
A  reformation  *'1a*  ^  st°°d  in  need  of  a  reformation  to  retrench  its  superflu- 
ities and  restore  its  natural  good  sense  and  beauty.  At  present, 
therefore,  an  unconstrained  carriage  and  a  certain  openness  of 
behavior  are  the  height  of  good  breeding.  The  fashionable 
world  is  grown  free  and  easy  ;  our  manners  sit  more  loose 
upon  us  ;  nothing  is  so  modisli  as  an  agreeable  negligence.  In 
a  word,  good  breeding  shows  itself  most  where  to  an  ordinary 
eye  it  appears  the  least. 

There  has  happened  another  revolution  in  the  point  of  good 
breeding,  which  relates  to  the  conversation  among  men  of 
mode,  and  which  1  cannot  but  look  upon  as  very  extraordinary. 


Addison  and  Gay.  97 


It  was  certainly  one  of  the  first  distinctions  of  a  well-bred  man 
to  express  everything  that  had  the  most  remote  appearance  of 
being  obscene  in  modest  terms  and  distant  phrases  ;  whilst  the 
clown,  who  had  no  such  delicacy  of  conception  and  expression, 
clothed  his  ideas  in  those  plain  homely  terms  that  are  the  most 
obvious  and  natural.  This  kind  of  good  manners  was  perhaps 
carried  to  an  <excess,  so  as  to  make  conversation  too  stiff, 
formal,  and  precise  ;  for  which  reason  (as  hypocrisy  in  one  age 
is  generally  succeeded  by  atheism  in  another)  conversation  is  in 
a  great  measure  relapsed  into  the  first  extreme  ;  so  that  at 
present  several  of  our  men  of  the  town,  and  particularly  those 
who  have  been  polished  in  France,  make  use  of  the  most 
coarse,  uncivilized  words  in  our  language,  and  utter  themselves 
often  in  such  a  manner  as  a  clown  would  blush  to  hear. 
This  infamous  piece  of  good  breeding,  which  reigns  among 

the  coxcombs  of  the  town,  has  not  yet  made  its  way  into  the    P°od  breedmg 
......  -in  town  and 

country  ;  and  as  it  is  impossible  for  such  an  irrational  way  of  country. 

conversation  to  last  long  among  a  people  that  makes  any  pro- 
fession of  religion,  or  show  of  modesty,  if  the  country  gentle- 
men get  into  it,  they  will  certainly  be  left  in  the  lurch.  Their 
good  breeding  will  come  too  late  to  them,  and  they  will  be 
thought  a  parcel  of  lewd  clowns,  while  they  fancy  themselves 
talking  together  like  men  of  wit  and  pleasure. 

THE  HOOD. 

One  of  the  fathers,  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  has  defined  a 
woman  to  be,  "An  animal  that  delights  in  finery."  I  have  Thehood- 
already  treated  of  the  sex  in  two  or  three  papers,  conformably 
to  this  definition,  and  have  in  particular  observed  that  in  all 
ages  they  have  been  more  careful  than  the  men  to  adorn  that 
part  of  the  head  which  we  generally  call  the  outside. 

This  observation  is  so  very  notorious  that  when  in  ordinary 
discourse  we  say  a  man  has  a  fine  head,  a  long  head,  or  a  good 
head,  we  express  ourselves  metaphorically,  and  speak  in 
relation  to  his  understanding  ;  whereas,  when  we  say  of  a 
woman  she  has  a  fine,  a  long,  or  a  good  head,  we  speak  only  in 
relation  to  her  commode. 

It  is  observed  among  birds  that  nature  has  lavished  all  her 

Ornaments  ot 

ornaments  upon  the  male,  who  very  often  appears  in  a  most   birds, 
beautiful  head  dress  ;  whether  it  be  a  crest,  a  comb,  a  tuft  of 


98      Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Female  heads. 


Hoods  at  the 
opera. 


feathers,  or  a  natural  little  plume,  erected,  like  a  kind  of  pin- 
nacle on  the  very  top  of  the  head.  As  nature,  on  the  contrary, 
has  poured  out  her  charms  in  the  greatest  abundance  upon  the 
female  part  of  our  species,  so  they  are  very  assiduous  in  be- 
stowing upon  themselves  the  finest  garnitures  of  art.  The 
peacock,  in  all  his  pride,  does  not  display  half  the  colors  that 
appear  in  the  garments  of  a  British  lady  when  she  is  dressed 
either  for  a  ball  or  a  birthday. 

But  to  return  to  our  female  heads.  The  ladies  have  been  for 
some  time  in  a  kind  of  molting  season  with  regard  to  that  part 
of  their  dress,  having  cast  off  great  quantities  of  ribbon,  lace, 
and  cambric,  and  in  some  measure  reduced  the  human  head  to 
the  beautiful  globular  form  which  is  natural  to  it.  We  have  for 
a  great  while  expected  what  kind  of  ornament  would  be  sub- 
stituted in  the  place  of  those  antiquated  commodes.  But  our 
female  projectors  were  all  the  last  summer  so  taken  up  with 
the  improvement  of  their  petticoats  that  they  had  not  time 
to  attend  to  anything  else  ;  but  having  at  length  sufficiently 
adorned  their  lower  parts,  they  now  begin  to  turn  their 
thoughts  upon  the  other  extremity,  as  well  remembering 
the  kitchen  proverb  that  if  you  light  a  fire  at  both  ends  the 
middle  will  shift  for  itself. 

I  am  engaged  in  this  speculation  by  a  sight  which  I  lately  met 
with  at  the  opera.  As  I  was  standing  in  the  hinder  part  of  the 
box  I  took  notice  of  a  little  cluster  of  women  sitting  together  in 
the  prettiest  colored  hoods  that  I  ever  saw.  One  of  them  was 
blue,  another  yellow,  and  another  philemot,  the  fourth  was  of  a 
pink  color,  and  the  fifth  of  a  pale  green.  I  looked  with  as  much 
pleasure  upon  this  little  parti-colored  assembly  as  upon  a  bed 
of  tulips,  and  did  not  know  at  first  whether  it  might  be  an 
embassy  of  Indian  queens  ;  but  upon  my  going  about  into  the 
pit,  and  taking  them  in  front,  I  was  immediately  undeceived, 
and  saw  so  much  beauty  in  every  face  that  I  found  them  all  to 
be  English.  Such  eyes  and  lips,  cheeks  and  foreheads,  could 
be  the  growth  of  no  other  country.  The  complexion  of  their 
faces  hindered  me  from  observing  any  further  the  color  of  their 
hoods,  though  I  could  easily  perceive  by  that  unspeakable  satis- 
faction which  appeared  in  their  looks  that  their  own  thoughts 
were  wholly  taken  up  on  those  pretty  ornaments  they  wore 
upon  their  heads. 

I  am  informed  that  this  fashion  spreads  daily,  insomuch  that 


Addison  and  Gay.  99 

the  Whig  and  Tory  ladies  begin  already  to  hang  out  different 

colors,  and  to  show  their  principles  in  their  head-dress.     Nay,    whig  and 

if  I  may  believe  my  friend  Will  Honeycomb,  there  is  a  certain   Tory  colors- 

old  coquette  of  his  acquaintance  who  intends  to  appear  very 

suddenly  in  a  rainbow  hood,  like  the  Iris  in  Dryden's  Virgil, 

not  questioning  but  that  among  such  a  variety  of  colors  she 

shall  have  a  charm  for  every  heart. 

My  friend  Will,  who  very  much  values  himself  upon  his  great 
insights  into  gallantry,  tells  me  that  he  can  already  guess  at  the 
humor  a  lady  is  in  by  her  hood,  as  the  courtiers  of  Morocco 
know  the  disposition  of  their  present  emperor  by  the  color  of 
the  dress  which  he  puts  on.  When  Melesinda  wraps  her  head 
in  flame  color,  her  heart  is  set  upon  execution.  When  she 
covers  it  with  purple,  I  would  not,  says  he,  advise  her  lover  to 
approach  her ;  but  if  she  appears  in  white,  it  is  peace,  and  he 
may  hand  her  out  of  her  box  with  safety. 

Will  informs  me  likewise  that  these  hoods  may  be  used  as 
signals.     Why  else,  says  he,  does  Cornelia  always  put  on  a    Hoods  as  sig- 
black  hood  when  her  husband  is  gone  into  the  country? 

A  LADY'S  DIARY. 

"  DEAR  MR.  SPECTATOR  :  You  having  set  your  readers  an 
exercise  in  one  of  your  last  week's  papers,  I  have  performed 
mine  according  to  your  orders,  and  herewith  send  it  you  A  lady's 
enclosed.  You  must  know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am  a  maiden 
lady  of  a  good  fortune,  who  have  had  several  matches  offered 
me  for  these  ten  years  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm 
applications  made  to  me  by  a  very  pretty  fellow.  As  I  am  at 
my  own  disposal,  I  come  up  to  town  every  winter,  and  pass  my 
time  in  it  after  the  manner  you  will  find  in  the  following  journal, 
which  I  began  to  write  upon  the  very  day  after  your  Spectator 
upon  that  subject. 

"TUESDAY  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in  the  morn- 
ing for  thinking  of  my  journal. 

"WEDNESDAY.  Front  eight  to  ten.  Drank  two  dishes  of 
chocolate  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  after  them. 

''From  ten  to  eleven.  Eat  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  drank  a 
dish  of  bohea,  read  the  Spectator. 

"From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette,  tried  a  new  head.  Gave 
orders  for  Veny  to  be  combed  and  washed.  Mem. :  I  look  best 
in  blue. 


ioo    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"From  one  till  half  an  hour  after  two.  Drove  to  the  'Change. 
Shopping.  Cheapened  a  couple  of  fans. 

"  Till  four.  At  dinner.  Mem.:  Mr.  Froth  passed  by  in  his 
new  liveries. 

"From  four  to  six.  Dressed,  paid  a  visit  to  old  lady  Blithe 
and  her  sister,  having  before  heard  they  were  gone  out  of  town 
that  day. 

"From  six  to  eleven.  At  basset.  Mem.:  Never  set  again 
upon  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

"THURSDAY.  From  eleven  at  night  to  eight  in  the  morning. 
Dreamed  that  I  punted  to  Mr.  Froth. 

" From  eight  to  ten.  Chocolate.  Read  two  acts  in  'Auren- 
zebe '  a-bed. 

"From  ten  to  eleven.  Tea-table.  Read  the  play  bills.  Received 
Rlaadbilfsthe  a  letter  fr°m  Mn  Froth.  Mem. :  Locked  it  up  in  my  strong-box. 

"Rest  of  the  morning.  Fontange,  the  tire-woman,  her 
account  of  Lady  Blithe's  wash.  Broke  a  tooth  in  my  little 
tortoise-shell  comb.  Sent  Frank  to  know  how  my  lady  Hectick 
rested  after  her  monkey's  leaping  out  at  the  window.  Looked 
pale.  Fontange  tells  me  my  glass  is  not  true.  Dressed  by 
three. 

"From  three  to  four.     Dinner  cold  before  I  sat  down. 

"  From  four  to  eleven.  Saw  company.  Mr.  Froth's  opinion 
of  Milton.  His  account  of  the  Mohocks.  His  fancy  for  a  pin- 
cushion. Picture  in  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box.  Old  Lady  Faddle 
promises  me  her  woman  to  cut  my  hair.  Lost  five  guineas  at 
crimp. 

"  Twelve  6* clock  at  night.     Went  to  bed. 

"FRIDAY.  Eight  in  the  morning.  A-bed.  Read  over  all 
Mr.  Froth's  letters. 

"  Ten  o'  clock.     Stayed  within  all  day,  not  at  home. 

"From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference  with  my  mantua-maker. 
Sorted  a  suit  of  ribband.  Broke  my  blue  china  cup. 

"From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up  in  my  chamber,  prac- 
ticed Lady  Betty  Modely's  skattle. 

"One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered  handkerchief. 
vfotet.6*1  a  Worked  half  a  violet  leaf  in  it.  Eyes  ached,  and  head  out  of 

order.  Threw  by  my  work  and  read  over  the  remaining  part 
of  '  Aurenzebe.' 

"  From  three  to  four.     Dined. 

"  From  four  to  twelve.     Changed   my  mind,   dressed,  went 


Addison  and  Gay. 


101 


abroad,  and  played  at  crimp  till  midnight.  Found  Mrs.  Spitely 
at  home.  Conversation  :  Mrs.  Brilliant's  necklace  false  stones. 
Old  Lady  Loveday  going  to  be  married  to  a  young  fellow  that 
is  not  worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone  into  the  country.  Tom 
Townly  has  red  hair.  Mem.:  Mrs.  Spitely  whispered  in  my 
ear  that  she  had  something  to  tell  me  about  Mr.  Froth.  I  am 
sure  it  is  not  true. 

"Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that  Mr.  Froth  lay  at 
my  feet  and  called  me  Indamora. 

"SATURDAY.      Rose  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.     Sat   The  toilette, 
down  at  my  toilette. 

"From  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an  hour  before 
I  could  determine  it.  Fixed  it  above  my  left  eyebrow. 

"  From  nine  to  twelve.     Drank  my  tea  and  dressed. 

"  From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of  company. 
Mem. :  The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.  Lady  Blithe  dressed 
frightfully. 

"From  three  to  four.  Dined.  Mrs.  Kitty  called  upon  me 
to  go  to  the  opera  before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

"  From  dinner  to  six.  Drank  tea.  Turned  off  a  footman  for 
being  rude  to  Veny. 

"  Six  o*  clock.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Froth 
till  the  beginning  of  the  second  act.  Mr.  Froth  talked  to  a  The  opera> 
gentleman  in  a  black  wig.  Bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  box. 
Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped  Nicolini  in  the  third  act.  Mr. 
Froth  cried  out  Ancora.  Mr.  Froth  led  me  to  my  chair.  I 
think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 

"Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy  dreams. 
Methought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

"SUNDAY.     Indisposed. 

"MONDAY.  Eight  o' clock.  Waked  by  Miss  Kitty.  'Auren- 
zebe  '  lay  upon  the  chair  by  me.  Kitty  repeated  without  book  The  conjurer, 
the  eight  best  lines  in  the  play.  Went  in  our  mobs  to  the 
dumb  man,  according  to  appointment.  Told  me  that  my 
lover's  name  began  with  a  G.  Mem. :  The  conjurer  was  within 
a  letter  of  Mr.  Froth's  name,  etc. 


"Upon  my  looking  back  into  this  my  journal,  I  find  that  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  know  whether  I  pass  my  time  well  or  ill  ;  and  indeed 
never  thought  of  considering  how  I  did  it  before  I  perused 


io2    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

your  speculation  upon  that  subject.  I  scarce  find  a  single 
action  in  these  five  days  that  I  can  thoroughly  approve  of, 
except  the  working  upon  the  violet  leaf,  which  I  am  resolved  to 
finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for  Mr.  Froth  and  Veny, 
I  did  not  think  they  took  up  so  much  of  my  time  and  thoughts 
as  I  find  they  do  upon  my  journal.  The  latter  of  whom  I  will 
turn  off  if  you  insist  upon  it ;  and  if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring 
matters  to  a  conclusion  very  suddenly,  I  will  not  let  my  life 
run  away  in  a  dream. 

"Your  humble  servant, 

"CLARINDA." 
THE  FAN  EXERCISE. 

I  do  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  letter  a  satire 
upon  coquettes,  or  a  representation  of  their  several  fantastical 
accomplishments,  or  what  other  title  to  give  it  ;  but  as  it  is  I 
shall  communicate  it  to  the  public.  It  will  sufficiently  explain 
its  own  intentions,  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my  reader  at  length, 
without  either  preface  or  postscript. 

"MR.  SPECTATOR  :  Women  are  armed  with  fans  as  men  with 
swords,  and  sometimes  do  more  execution  with  them.  To 
the  end,  therefore,  that  ladies  may  be  entire  mistresses  of  the 
weapon  which  they  bear,  I  have  erected  an  Academy  for  the 
training  up  of  young  women  in  the  Exercise  of  the  Fan, 
according  to  the  most  fashionable  airs  and  motions  that  are 
now  practiced  at  court.  The  ladies  who  carry  fans  under  me 
are  drawn  up  twice  a  day  in  my  great  hall,  where  they  are 
instructed  in  the  use  of  their  arms,  and  exercised  by  the 
following  words  of  command  : 

Handle  your  Fans, 

Unfurl  your  Fans, 

Discharge  your  Fans, 

Ground  yo2ir  Fans, 

Recover  your  Fans, 

Flutter  your  Fans. 

By  the  right  observation  of  these  few  plain  words  of  com- 
mand, a  woman  of  a  tolerable  genius  who  will  apply  herself 
diligently  to  her  exercise  for  the  space  of  one  half  year,  shall 
be  able  to  give  her  fan  all  the  graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into 
that  modish  little  machine. 

"  But  to  the  end  that  mv  readers  may  form  to  themselves  a 


Addison  and  Gay,  103 

right  notion  of  this  exercise,  I  beg  leave  to  explain  it  to  them 

in  all  its  parts.    When  my  female  regiment  is  drawn  up  in  array,    The  female 

with  every  one  her  weapon  in  her  hand,  upon  my  giving  my   resiment- 

word  to  Handle  their  Fans,  each  of  them  shakes  her  fan  at  me 

with  a  smile,  then  gives  her  right-hand  woman  a  tap  upon  the 

shoulder,  then  presses  her  lips  with  the  extremity  of  the  fan, 

then  lets  her  arms  fall  in  an  easy  motion,  and  stands  in  readiness 

to  receive  the  next  word  of  command.     All  this  is  done  with  a 

closed  fan,  and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  week. 

"The  next  motion  is  that  of  Unfurling  the  Fan,  in  which  are 
comprehended  several  little  flirts  and  vibrations,  as  also  gradual 
and  deliberate  openings,  with  many  voluntary  fallings  asunder 
in  the  fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  month's  prac- 
tice. This  part  of  the  exercise  pleases  the  spectators  more  than 
any  other,  as  it  discovers  in  a  sudden  an  infinite  number  of 
cupid's  garlands,  altars,  birds,  beasts,  rainbows,  and  the  like 
agreeable  figures  that  display  themselves  to  view,  whilst  every 
one  in  the  regiment  holds  a  picture  in  her  hand. 

"Upon  my  giving  the  word  to  Discharge  their  Fans,  they 
give  one  general  crack,  that  may  be  heard  at  a  considerable  Discharge 
distance  when  the  wind  sets  fair.  This  is  one  of  the  most  diffi-  Fans- 
cult  parts  of  the  exercise  ;  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me 
who  at  their  first  entrance  could  not  give  a  pop  loud  enough  to 
be  heard  at  the  further  end  of  a  room,  who  can  now  Discharge 
a  Fan  in  such  a  manner  that  it  shall  make  a  report  like  a  pocket 
pistol.  I  have  likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to  hinder  young 
women  from  letting  off  their  fans  in  wrong  places  or  unsuitable 
occasions)  to  show  upon  what  subject  the  crack  of  a  fan  may 
come  in  properly.  I  have  likewise  invented  a  fan  with  which  a 
girl  of  sixteen,  by  the  help  of  a  little  wind  which  is  enclosed 
about  one  of  the  largest  sticks,  can  make  as  loud  a  crack  as  a 
woman  of  fifty  with  an  ordinary  fan. 

"When  the  fans  are  thus  discharged  the  word  of  command 
in  course  is  to  Ground  their  Fans.  This  teaches  a  lady  to  quit 
her  fan  gracefully  when  she  throws  it  aside,  in  order  to  take  up 
a  pack  of  cards,  adjust  a  curl  of  hair,  replace  a  fallen  pin,  or 
apply  herself  to  any  other  matter  of  importance.  This  part  of 
the  exercise,  as  it  only  consists  in  tossing  a  fan  with  an  air  upon 
a  long  table  (which  stands  by  for  that  purpose),  may  be  learnt 
in  two  days'  time  as  well  as  in  a  twelvemonth. 

"  When  my  female  regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I  generally  let 


104    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

them  walk  about  the  room  for  some  time  ;  when  on  a  sudden 
(like  ladies  that  look  upon  their  watches  after  a  long  visit)  they 
all  of  them  hasten  to  their  arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  hurry,  and 
place  themselves  in  their  proper  stations  upon  my  calling  out 
Recover  your  Fans.  This  part  of  the  exercise  is  not  difficult, 
provided  a  woman  applies  her  thoughts  to  it. 

"The  Fluttering  of  the  Fan  is  the  last,  and,  indeed,  the 

masterpiece  of  the  whole  exercise ;  but  if  a  lady  does  not  mis- 
Fluttering  of  ,   ,  ,  11  ir       •   ^  c  •*.  •      ^1 

the  Fan.  spend  her  time,  she  may  make  herself  mistress  ot  it  in  three 

months.  I  generally  lay  aside  the  dog-days  and  the  hot  time  of 
the  summer  for  the  teaching  of  this  part  of  the  exercise  ;  for  as 
soon  as  ever  I  pronounce  Flutter  your  Fans,  the  place  is  filled 
with  so  many  zephyrs  and  gentle  breezes  as  are  very  refreshing 
in  that  season  of  the  year,  though  they  might  be  dangerous  to 
ladies  of  a  tender  constitution  in  any  other. 

"There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  motions  to  be  made  use  of  in 
the  Flutter  of  a  Fan  :  there  is  the  angry  flutter,  the  modest 
flutter,  the  timorous  flutter,  the  confused  flutter,  the  merry 
flutter,  and  the  amorous  flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious,  there  is 
scarce  any  emotion  in  the  mind  which  does  not  produce  a  suit- 
able agitation  in  the  fan  ;  insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see  the  fan 
of  a  disciplined  lady,  I  know  very  well  whether  she  laughs, 
frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have  seen  a  fan  so  very  angry  that  it 
would  have  been  dangerous  for  the  absent  lover  who  provoked 
it  to  have  come  within  the  wind  of  it ;  and  at  other  times  so 
very  languishing  that  I  have  been  glad  for  the  lady's  sake  the 
lover  was  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  it.  I  need  not  add  that 
a  fan  is  either  a  prude  or  coquette,  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  person  who  bears  it.  To  conclude  my  letter,  I  must 
acquaint  you  that  I  have  from  my  own  observations  com- 
piled a  little  treatise  for  the  use  of  my  scholars,  entitled,  The 
Passions  of  the  Passions  of  the  Fan  ;  which  I  will  communicate  to  you  if  you 
Fan.  think  it  may  be  of  use  to  the  public.  I  shall  have  a  general 

review  on  Thursday  next ;  to  which  you  shall  be  very  welcome 
if  you  will  honor  it  with  your  presence. 

"  I  am,  &c. 

"  P.  S. — I  teach  young  gentlemen  the  whole  art  of  gallanting 
a  fan. 

"  N.  R. — I  have  several  little  plain  fans  made  for  this  use,  to 
avoid  expense." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

So  much  for  the  follies  of  the  time,  as  touched  by  the 
light  pen  of  Addison  in  the  papers  of  the  Spectator.  I 
add  a  part  of  the  ' '  Trivia ' '  of  John  Gay,  for  its  curious  John  Gay.s 
details  of  the  street  scenery,  costume,  and  manners  of 
the  time.  Gay  was  a  contemporary  and  friend  of  both 
Pope  and  Addison  and  a  petted  member  of  the  clubs  to 
which  they  belonged.  He  was  one  of  those  easy,  ami- 
able, good-natured  men  who  are  the  darlings  of  their 
friends,  perhaps  because  their  talents  excite  admiration 
without  jealousy,  while  their  characters  are  the  object 
rather  of  fondness  than  respect.  He  entered  life  as  a 
linen-draper's  shopman,  but  soon  relinquished  this 
occupation  to  become  dependent  upon  the  great,  with  a 
vague  pining  after  public  employment  for  which  his  in- 
dolent, self-indulgent  life  rendered  him  singularly  unfit. 
His  "  Beggar's  Opera"  was  a  really  successful  venture.  "Beggar's 
The  idea  of  it  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  to  him 
when  he  was  living  with  Pope  at  Twickenham  ;  it  was  to 
transfer  the  song  and  style  of  Italian  opera,  then  a  novelty, 
to  the  lowest  class  of  English  life — a  sort  of  parody  on 
grand  opera,  while  it  became  the  origin  of  the  English 
opera.  Its  immense  vogue  was  something  akin  to  that 
of  "Pinafore"  in  our  day. 

EXTRACT  FROM  "TRIVIA;    OR   THE   ART  OF  WALKING  THE 
STREETS  OF  LONDON." 

Through  winter  streets  to  steer  your  course  aright, 
How  to  walk  clean  by  day,  and  safe  by  night ; 
How  jostling  crowds  with  prudence  to  decline, 

105 


io6    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Centiiry. 


Winding  alleys. 


The  shoe- 
black. 


The  proper 
coat. 


When  to  assert  the  wall  and  when  resign, 
I  sing  ;  thou,  Trivia,  goddess,  aid  my  song. 
Through  spacious  streets  conduct  thy  bard  along  ; 
By  thee  transported,  I  securely  stray 
Where  winding  alleys  lead  the  doubtful  way, 
The  silent  court  and  opening  square  explore, 
And  long  perplexing  lanes  untrod  before. 
To  pave  thy  realm  and  smooth  the  broken  ways, 
Earth  from  her  womb  a  flinty  tribute  pays. 
For  thee  the  sturdy  pavior  thumps  the  ground, 
Whilst  every  stroke  his  laboring  lungs  resound  ; 
For  thee  the  scavenger  bids  kennels  glide 
Within  their  bounds,  and  heaps  of  dirt  subside. 
My  youthful  bosom  burns  with  thirst  of  fame, 
From  the  great  theme  to  build  a  glorious  name, 
To  tread  in  paths  to  ancient  paths  unknown, 
And  bind  my  temples  with  a  civic  crown  ; 
But  more  my  country's  love  demands  my  lays  ; 
My  country's  be  the  profit,  mine  the  praise  ! 

When  the  black  youth  at  chosen  stands  rejoice, 
And  "clean  your  shoes"  resounds  from  every  voice  ; 
When  late  their  miry  sides  stage  coaches  show, 
And  their  stiff  horses  through  the  town  move  slow  ; 
When  all  the  Mall  in  leafy  ruin  lies, 
And  damsels  first  renew  their  oyster  cries  ; 
Then  let  the  prudent  walker  shoes  provide, 
Not  of  the  Spanish  nor  Morocco  hide  ; 
The  wooden  heel  may  raise  the  dancer's  bound, 
And  with  the  scollop'd  top  his  step  be  crown'd ; 
Let  firm,  well-hammered  soles  protect  thy  feet, 
Through  freezing  snows,  and  rains,  and  soaking  sleet. 
Should  the  big  last  extend  the  shoe  too  wide, 
Each  stone  will  wrench  th'  unwary  step  aside  : 
The  sudden  turn  may  stretch  the  swelling  vein, 
Thy  cracking  joint  unhinge,  or  ankle  sprain  ; 
And,  when  too  short  the  modest  shoes  are  worn, 
You'll  judge  the  seasons  by  your  shooting  corn. 

Nor  should  it  prove  thy  less  important  care 
To  choose  a  proper  coat  for  winter's  wear, 
Now  in  thy  trunk  thy  D'Oyly  habit  fold, 
The  silken  drugget  ill  can  fence  the  cold  ; 


Addison  and  Gay.  107 

The  frieze's  spongy  nap  is  soak'd  with  rain, 

And  showers  soon  drench  the  camlet's  cockl'd  grain  ; 

True  Witney  broadcloth,  with  its  shag  unshorn, 

Unpierc'd  is  in  the  lasting  tempest  worn. 

Be  this  the  horseman's  fence,  for  who  would  wear 

Amid  the  town  the  spoils  of  Russia's  bear  ? 

Within  the  roquelaure's  clasp  thy  hands  are  pent, 

Hands  that,  stretch'd  forth,  invading  harms  prevent. 

Let  the  looped  bavaroy  the  fop  embrace 

Or  his  deep  cloke  bespatter'd  o'er  with  lace. 

That  garment  best  the  winter's  rage  defends 

Whose  ample  form  without  one  plait  depends, 

By  various  names  in  various  countries  known, 

Yet  held  in  all  the  true  surtout  alone ;  The  surtout. 

Be  thine  of  Kersey  firm,  though  small  the  cost, 

Then  brave  unwet  the  rain,  unchill'd  the  frost. 

If  the  strong  cane  support  thy  walking  hand 
Chairmen  no  longer  shall  the  wall  command, 
Ev'n  sturdy  carmen  shall  thy  nod  obey, 
And  rattling  coaches  stop  to  make  thee  way  ; 
This  shall  direct  thy  cautious  tread  aright, 
Though  not  one  glaring  lamp  enliven  night. 
Let  beaux  their  canes  with  amber  tipt  produce 
Be  theirs  for  empty  show,  but  thine  for  use. 
In  gilded  chariots  while  they  loll  at  ease, 
And  lazily  ensure  a  life's  disease  ; 
While  softer  chairs  the  tawdry  load  convey 
To  courts,  to  White's,  assemblies,  or  the  play  ; 
Rosy  complexion' d  health  thy  steps  attends, 
And  exercise  thy  lasting  youth  defends. 
Imprudent  men  Heaven's  choicest  gifts  profane  ; 
Thus  some  beneath  their  arm  support  the  cane  ; 
The  dirty  point  oft  checks  the  careless  pace, 
The  miry  spots  the  clean  cravat  disgrace. 
Oh  !  may  I  never  such  misfortune  meet ! 
May  no  such  vicious  walkers  crowd  the  street ! 
May  Providence  o'ershade  me  with  her  wings, 
While  the  bold  muse  experienc'd  danger  sings  ! 

When  sleet  is  first  disturbed  by  morning  cries,  Weather  sig- 

From  sure  prognostics  learn  to  know  the  skies, 


The  umbrella. 


Pattens. 


108    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Lest  you  of  rheums  and  coughs  at  night  complain, 

Surprised  in  dreary  fogs  or  driving  rain. 

When  suffocating  mists  obscure  the  morn 

Let  thy  worst  wig,  long  us'd  to  storms,  be  worn  ; 

This  knows  the  powder'd  footman,  and  with  care 

Beneath  his  flapping  hat  secures  his  hair. 

Be  thou  for  every  season  justly  drest, 

Nor  brave  the  piercing  frost  with  open  breast ; 

And,  when  the  bursting  clouds  a  deluge  pour, 

Let  thy  surtout  defend  the  drenching  shower. 

Good  housewives  all  the  winter's  rage  despise, 
Defended  by  the  riding  hood's  disguise  ; 
Or,  underneath  th'  umbrella's  oily  shed, 
Safe  through  the  wet,  on  clinking  pattens  tread. 
Let  Persian  dames  th'  umbrella's  ribs  display, 
To  guard  their  beauties  from  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Or  sweating  slaves  support  the  shady  load, 
When  eastern  monarchs  show  their  state  abroad  ; 
Britain  in  winter  only  knows  its  aid, 
To  guard  from  chilly  showers  the  walking  maid. 
But  oh  !  forget  not,  Muse,  the  patten's  praise, 
That  female  implement  shall  grace  thy  lays  ! 
Say  from  what  art  divine  th'  invention  came, 
And  from  its  origin  deduce  its  name. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Essays  of  Joseph  Addison.    J.  R.  Green. 
Richard  Steele  (Men  of  Letters  Series). 
Famous  Plays.    J.  F.  Molloy.     (London,  1886. 
Beggar's  Opera.    John  Gay. 


BOOK  IV. 
RICHARDSON  AND   HARRIET  BYRON. 

CHAPTER  X. 

Now  we  come,  and  gladly,  to  our  excellent  Richard- 
son and  his  admiring  circle  of  ladies.  I  have  them 
before  me,  sitting  in  "the  grotto" — Mr.  Richardson  The  grotto, 
himself  on  the  left,  in  cap  and  dressing-gown,  with  white 
legs  and  low  slippers,  holding  the  book,  while  at  a  small 
table  opposite  are  Miss  Mulso  and  Miss  Prescott  and 
Miss  Highmore,  in  hats  and  paduasoys  with  Watteau 
backs.  Miss  Highmore  has  a  book  in  her  hand.  What 
is  she  doing  with  that?  Near  Mr.  Richardson,  in  an 
engaging  attitude  of  attention,  sits  Mr.  Mulso,  the 
brother  of  Miss  Mulso,  and  you  must  remember  that 
Miss  Prescott  afterward  became  Mrs.  Mulso  ;  while  Miss 
Mulso  became  Mrs.  Chapone,  who  wrote  tedious  though 
praiseworthy  letters  upon  the  conduct  of  young  ladies. 
Next  Mr.  Mulso  is  Mr.  Edward  Mulso,  his  legs  crossed, 
for  he  is  sitting  on  a  rather  uncomfortable  high  seat 
against  the  wall  of  the  grotto.  The  reverend  Mr.  Dun-  Ti,e  admiring 
combe  is  over  with  the  ladies,  and  suspiciously  near  c 
Miss  Highmore,  who  afterward  became  Mrs.  Buncombe. 
The  wide  door  of  the  grotto  stands  open,  and  a  straight 
walk  and  rather  stiff  trees  are  seen  without,  attained  by 
two  steps  within  the  doorway. 

The  picture  is  entitled  "Mr.  Richardson  reading  the   Reading  the 
Manuscript  of  Sir  Charles   Grandison,  in   1751,   to  his   Charles 
Friends  in  the  Grotto  of  his  House  at  North  End,  from  a 


no    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Drawing  made  at  the  time  by  Miss  Highmore."  That 
is  it.  Miss  Highmore  is  making  the  picture  now,  and 
that  is  a  pencil,  or  some  such  instrument,  in  her  hand. 
The  picture  (it  is  colored)  faces  the  title-page  of  the 
second  volume  of  ' '  The  Correspondence  of  Samuel 
Richardson,"  by  Anna  Letitia  Barbauld,  who  has  pref- 
aced it  with  his  "  Life"  and  some  remarks  on  his  writ- 
ings, from  which  I  quote  freely. 

The  author  of  "  Clarissa  "  was  always  fond  of  female  society. 

The  author  of  He  lived  in  a  kind  of  flower-garden  of  ladies  ;  they  were  his 
inspirers,  his  critics,  his  applauders.  Connections  of  business 
apart,  they  were  his  chief  correspondents.  He  had  generally  a 
number  of  young  ladies  at  his  house  whom  he  used  to  engage 
in  conversation  on  some  subject  of  sentiment,  and  provoke  by 
artful  opposition  to  display  the  treasures  of  intellect  they 
possessed.  Miss  Mulso,  afterward  Mrs.  Chapone  ;  Miss  High- 
more,  now  Mrs.  Duncombe  ;  Miss  Talbot,  niece  to  Lecker,  an 
author  of  some  much  esteemed  devotional  pieces  ;  Miss  Pres- 
cott,  afterward  Mrs.  Mulso  ;  Miss  Fieldings  and  Miss  Colliers, 
resided  occasionally  with  him.  He  was  accustomed  to  give  the 
•  young  ladies  he  esteemed  the  endearing  appellation  of  his 
daughters.  He  used  to  write  in  a  little  summer  house,  or 
"grotto,"  as  it  was  called,  within  his  garden,  before  the  family 
were  up,  and,  when  they  met  at  breakfast,  he  communicated 
the  progress  of  his  story,  which,  by  that  means,  had  every  day 
a  fresh  and  lively  interest.  Then  began  the  criticisms,  the 
pleadings  for  Harriet  Byron  or  Clementina  ;  every  turn  and 

Criticisms  on  every  incident  was  eagerly  canvassed,  and  the  author  enjoyed 
the  benefit  of  knowing  beforehand  how  his  situations  would 
strike.  Their  own  little  peculiarities  and  entanglements,  too, 
were  developed,  and  became  the  subject  of  grave  advice  or 
lively  raillery. 

Mrs.  Duncombe  (No.  7  in  the  picture)  thus  men- 
tions the  agreeable  scene  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Mulso 
(No.  5): 

I  shall  often,  in  idea,  enjoy  again  the  hours  that  we  have  so 
agreeably  spent  in  the  delightful  retirement  of  North  End  : 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  1 1 1 

For  while  this  pleasing  subject  I  pursue, 

The  grot,  the  garden,  rush  upon  my  view  ; 

There  in  blest  union,  round  the  friendly  gate, 

Instruction,  peace,  and  cheerful  freedom  wait ; 

And  then  a  choir  of  listening  nymphs  appears 

Oppressed  with  wonder  or  dissolved  in  tears  ; 

But  on  her  tender  fears  when  Harriet  dwells, 

And  love's  soft  symptoms  innocently  tells, 

They  all,  with  conscious  smiles,  these  symptoms  view, 

And  by  those  conscious  smiles  confess  them  true. 

Mr.  Richardson  was  a  friend  to  mental  improvement  in 
woman,  though  under  all  those  restrictions  which  modesty  ^'g^ofwo 
and  decorum  have  imposed  upon  the  sex.  Indeed,  his  senti- 
ments seem  to  have  been  more  favorable  to  female  literature 
before  than  after  his  intercourse  with  the  fashionable  world  ;  for 
Clarissa  has  been  taught  Latin,  but  Miss  Byron  has  been  made 
to  say  that  she  does  even  know  which  are  meant  by  the  learned 
languages,  and  to  declare  that  a  woman  who  knows  them  is  as 
an  owl  among  birds. 

Such  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  Samuel  Richardson 
wrote  his  works,  in  their  time  regarded  as  great.  There 
are  three  novels,  "Pamela,"  published  in  1740,  "Clar- 
issa Harlowe,"  in  1748,  and  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison  "  in 
Z753-  They  are  all  three  written  upon  one  plan  ;  that 
is,  the  story  is  entirely  told  in  letters,  which  are  sup-  nroveeis.ree 
posed  to  be  written  by  the  various  persons  in  the  action, 
a  plan  which  is  full  of  difficulties,  especially  for  the  nar- 
rative novel,  where  everything  is  told  and  nothing  as- 
sumed ;  for  instance,  Richardson  has  to  devise  reasons 
for  keeping  Sir  Charles  Grandison' s  own  sister  away 
from  his  very  important  wedding — which  occupies  a 
whole  volume  in  narration — in  order  that  the  relatives 
and  guests,  even  the  bride  herself,  may  slip  away  in 
turn  and  "take  the  pen"  that  a  consecutive  account 
of  the  affair  may  be  given  incidentally  to  Lady  G.  and, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  to  his  public. 


H2    Men  and  Manners  of  tJie  Eighteenth  Century. 

But  no  matter.  Letter- writing  was  Richardson's 
R?chYrdson'sg  ^orte-  He  began  it  very  early  on  his  own  account,  and 
forte-  he  created  his  characters  by  making  them  write  letters. 

He  has  the  reputation  of  being  the  real  founder  of  the 
romance  of  private  life  ;  for  although  the  romances  de 
longzie  haleine  were  gone  or  going  out  of  fashion,  a 
closer  imitation  of  nature  was  lacking  until  Defoe  pro- 
duced "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  from  which  it  is  said,  but  I 
doubt,  that  Richardson  in  some  measure  caught  his  own 
manner  of  accurate  description  of  daily  events.  Mrs. 
Barbauld  says  : 

Richardson  was  the  man  who  was  to  introduce  a  new  kind  of 
moral  painting  ;  he  drew  equally  from  nature  and  from  his  own 
ideas.  From  the  world  about  him  he  took  the  incidents,  man- 
ners, and  general  character  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  and 
from  his  own  beautiful  ideas  he  copied  that  sublime  of  virtue 
which  charms  us  in  his  Clarissa,  and  that  sublime  of  passion 
which  interests  us  in  his  Clementina.  That  kind  of  ficti- 
tious writing  of  which  he  has  set  the  example  disclaims  all 
assistance  from  giants  or  genii.  The  moated  castle  is  changed 
to  a  modern  parlor  ;  the  princess  and  her  pages  to  a  lady  and 
her  domestics,  or  even  to  a  simple  maiden,  without  birth  or 
fortune  ;  we  are  not  called  on  to  wonder  at  improbable  events, 
but  to  be  moved  by  natural  passions  and  impressed  by  salutary 
maxims.  The  pathos  of  the  story  and  the  dignity  of  the  senti- 
ment interest  and  charm  us  ;  simplicity  is  warned,  vice  re- 
buked, and  from  the  perusal  of  a  novel  we  rise  better  prepared 
to  meet  the  ills  of  life  with  firmness,  and  to  perform  our  respec- 
tive parts  on  its  great  theater. 

We,  in  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  have  got  so 
far  beyond,  or  away  from,  expecting  giants  and  genii 
and  moats  in  our  novels,  that  we  do  not  feel  called  upon 
to  praise  the  author  that  avoids  them  ;  but  in  the  days 
of  the  ' '  Castle  of  Otranto ' '  it  was  otherwise. 

narration.'  ^s  a  ^o>'>  Richardson  had  the  gift  of  narration  and 

employed  it.      He  says  himself  somewhere  : 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  113 

I  recollect  that  I  was  early  noted  for  having  invention.     I 
was  not  fond  of  play,  as  other  boys  ;  my  school-fellows  used  to    His  youthful 
call  me  "Serious"  and  "Gravity";  and  five  of  them  particu-   stones- 
larly  delighted  to  single  me  out  either  for  a  walk,  or  at  their 
fathers'  houses,  or  at  mine,  to  tell  them  stories,  as  they  phrased 
it.     Some  I  told  them,  from  my  reading,  as  true ;  others  from 
my  head,  as  mere  invention  ;  of  which  they  would  be  most  fond, 
and  often  were  affected  by  them.     One  of  them,  particularly,  I 
remember,  was  for  putting  me  to  write  a  story.     All  my  stories 
carried  with  them,  I  am  bold  to  say,  a  useful  moral. 

1 '  Pamela ' '  was  written  in  three  months,  and  pub- 
lished in  1740.  It  was  received  with  a  burst  of  applause 
from  all  ranks  of  people.  The  novelty  of  the  plan,  the 
simplicity  of  the  language,  the  sentiments  of  piety  and 
virtue  it  contained,  also  a  novelty,  took  at  once  the 
taste  of  the  public.  Every  one  was  reading  it.  Even  at 
Ranelagh  it  was  usual  for  ladies  to  hold  up  the  volumes 
of  ' '  Pamela ' '  to  one  another,  to  show  they  had  got  the 
book  that  every  one  was  talking  of. 

Mrs.  Barbauld  says  : 

The  fame  of  this  once  favorite  work  is  now  somewhat  tar- 
nished by  time  [she  was  writing  about  1800],  but  the  enthusiasm  ..  p^ela  " 
with  which  it  was  received  shows  incontrovertibly  that  a  novel 
written  on  the  side  of  virtue  was  considered  as  a  new  experi- 
ment. .  .  .  But  the  production  upon  which  the  fame  of 
Richardson  is  principally  founded,  that  which  will  transmit  his 
name  to  posterity  as  one  of  the  first  geniuses  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  is  undoubtedly  "Clarissa." 

The  interest  which  ' '  Clarissa  ' '  excited  was  increased 
by  suspense.  The  interval  of  several  months  which 
passed  between  the  publication  of  the  first  four  volumes 
and  the  remaining  four  (yes,  eight  in  all,  and  long,  each 

O  \  s  O  O  ' 

of  them)  wound  up  its  readers  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
enthusiasm.  Every  reader,  and  that  was  everybody,  had 
an  opinion  about  the  proper  ending  of  the  book,  and 
they  all  wrote  Richardson  to  express  their  views. 


H4    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

*  Philaretes  writes  :  "  Since  I  have  heard  that  you  design 

the  end  to  be  unhappy,  I  shall  read  no  more."  Miss 
Highmore  says  :  "We  could  none  of  us  read  aloud  the 

Effect  on  its        affecting-  scenes  we  met  with,  but  each  read  to  ourselves, 

readers. 

and  in  separate  apartments  wept." 


CHAPTER  XL 

MRS.  BARBAULD  says : 

After  Mr.  Richardson  had  published  two  works,  in  each  of 
which  the  principal  character  is  a  female,  he  determined  to  give 
the  world  an  example  of  a  perfect  man. 

Hence  came  "Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  from  which  I 

.  .  "Sir  Charles 

shall  give  the  extracts  I  intend  as  specimens  not  only  of  Grandison." 
Richardson's  work,  but  as  pictures  of  the  time.  It  is 
true  that  Richardson  was  accused  by  his  contemporaries- 
of  ignorance  of  the  real  manners  and  modes  of  thought 
and  feeling,  prevalent  in  the  fashionable  world  in  which 
he  makes  the  characters  in  this  third  novel  move.  Our 
friend  Lady  Mary  is  severe  upon  him  on  such  points, 
although  she  says  (on  just  receiving  the  book,  lately 
published) : 

I  was  such  an  old  fool  as  to  weep  over  "  Clarissa  Harlowe." 
To  say  truth,  the  first  volume  softened  me  by  a  near  resem- 
blance of  my  maiden  days  ;  but  on  the  whole  'tis  most  miserable 
stuff.  .  .  .  Yet  the  circumstances  are  so  laid  as  to  inspire 
tenderness,  notwithstanding  the  low  style  and  absurd  incidents. 

And  again  : 

I  have  now  read  over  "Sir  Charles  Grandison" — it  sinks 
horribly  in  the  third  volume  (so  does  the  story  of  "Clarissa").  Lady  Mary's 
When  Richardson  talks  of  Italy,  it  is  plain  he  is  no  better 
acquainted  with  it  than  he  is  with  Kingdom  of  Mancomingo. 
.  .  .  It  is  certain  there  are  as  many  marriages  as  ever. 
Richardson  is  so  eager  for  the  multiplication  of  them.  I 
suppose  he  is  some  parish  curate  whose  chief  profit  depends  on 
weddings  and  christenings.  He  never  probably  had  money 
enough  to  purchase  a  ticket  for  a  masquerade,  which  gives  him 
such  an  aversion  to  them ;  though  this  intended  satire  against 


1 1 6    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

them  is  very  absurd  on  the  account  of  his  Harriet,  since  she 
might  have  been  carried  off  in  the  same  manner  if  she  had  been 
going  from  supper  with  her  grandame.  Her  whole  behavior, 
which  he  designs  to  be  exemplary,  is  equally  blameable  and 
ridiculous.  He  has  no  idea  of  the  manners  of  high  life.  His 
old  Lord  M.  talks  in  the  style  of  a  country  justice,  and  his  virtu- 
ous young  ladies  romp  like  the  wenches  round  a  may-pole. 
With  all  my  contempt,  I  will  take  notice  of  one  good  thing,  I 
mean  his  project  of  an  English  monastery.  It  was  a  favorite 
scheme  of  mine  when  I  was  fifteen. 

Later  on,  in  1755,  she  again  says  : 

This  Richardson  is  a  strange  fellow.  I  heartily  despise  him, 
and  eagerly  read  him,  nay,  sob  over  his  works,  in  a  most 
scandalous  manner.  The  two  first  tomes  of  "Clarissa" 
touched  me,  as  being  very  resembling  to  my  maiden  days  ;  and 
I  find  in  the  pictures  of  Sir  Thomas  Grandison  and  his  lady, 
what  I  have  heard  of  my  mother  and  seen  of  my  father. 

I  am  not  troubled  by  Lady  Mary's  comments,  for  it 

Reality  of  ... 

Richardson's       is  evident  that  Richardson,  in  all  his  books,  makes  his 

characters. 

characters  so  real  that  they  moved  his  contemporaries  to 
the  depths.  If  his  fine  ladies  lack  the  supreme  touches 
of  fashion  of  Lady  Mary's  circle,  they  are  nevertheless 
very  human  beings,  and  give  us  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
life  in  their  time,  yes,  in  her  time.  I  prefer  it  of  the 
three  because  it  is  the  most  amusing.  "Pamela"  is  dull 
beyond  words  ;  ' '  Clarissa ' '  is  shocking  to  our  ideas  of 
propriety,  although  the  morality  is  of  good  intent.  I 
think  I  can  persuade  you  that  "  Sir  Charles  "  is  at  least 
entertaining,  if  even  he,  the  man,  appears  not  so  per- 
fect as  his  author  intended. 

Great   debates   took    place    in    the    author's    female 
senate,  as  the  chapters  were  read  in  the  grotto,  concern- 
ing the  winding  up  of  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison."    Some 
Killing  ciem-      voted  for  killing  Clementina,  and  very  few  were  satisfied 
with  the  termination  as  it  stands.      I   mvself  think  it  is 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  117 

very  well  as  it  is,  and  as  for  most  readers  of  our  gener- 
ation, they  are  so  glad  to  have  the  seven  volumes  reach 
any  termination  at  all,  they  do  not  find  fault.  But  this  is 
to  anticipate. 

There  were  none  in  his  own  age  to  give  such  a  ver- 
dict. Richardson's  "Correspondence"  employs  six  Richardson's 
volumes,  of  which  it  may  be  safely  said  that  three  quar-  e'i£e!"esp°nd~ 
ters  of  the  space  is  occupied  in  the  raptures  of  his  "  lady 
friends"  over  the  successive  events  in  the  novels.  He 
was  a  vain  little  man,  it  is  evident ;  and  perhaps  he  pre- 
served the  letters  on  account  of  the  adulation  they  con- 
tain, certainly  not,  for  the  most  part,  for  any  intrinsic 
interest  or  literary  merit.  Here  and  there  are  to  be 
found  indications  of  his  great  goodness  of  heart,  and 
patience  under  persistence,  in  the  shape  of  aid  extended 
to  suffering  ladies  of  the  pen,  whose  means  of  living 
were  as  meager  as  their  power  of  earning  one.  Many  a 
five-pound  note  slipped  into  his  letters  of  reply  to  such 
appeals. 

Richardson  lived  to  be  seventy.  He  had  accumulated 
an  easy  fortune  by  his  excellent  diligence  in  writing,  and 
retired  to  a  pleasant  suburban  house  at  Parson's  Green, 
near  London,  where  he  passed  an  honorable  old  age, 
surrounded,  as  we  have  seen  him,  by  his  female 
worshipers. 

''The  History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  Bart.,"  occu- 
pies seven  volumes,  each  of  over  three  hundred  pages.  Seven  volumes- 
It  is  all  in  letters  between  the  principal  persons,  whose 
names  are  printed  in  the  beginning,  as  appears  on  a  play 
bill.  This  list  includes  Men,  of  whom  there  are  twenty, 
chiefly  lovers,  otherwise  relatives  of  Miss  Harriet  Byron  ; 
Women,  sixteen,  at  their  head  the  name  of  the  heroine  ; 
and  in  separate  lists,  Italians,  both  men  and  women  (as 
if  they  constituted  another  sex),  fourteen  in  number.  It 


1 1 8    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 

may  be  imagined  that  all  these  characters,  writing  to  each 
other  with  immense  prolixity,  may  fill  seven  volumes 
without  difficulty.  The  difficulty  now  is  to  persuade 
people  to  read  them. 

The  book  begins  with  the  departure  of  Harriet  Byron 
for  a  visit,  her  first  visit  to  London,  from  her  home  in 
the  country,  where  she  lives  with  a  delightful  collection 
of  relatives,  her  Uncle  and  Aunt  Selby,  the  revered  Mrs. 
Shirley,  who  is  her  grandmother  by  her  mother's  side, 
and  so  on.  The  key-note  is  struck  in  the  first  sentence, 
written  by  Miss  Lucy  Selby  on  the  departure  of  her 
cousin  for  town  : 

Your  resolution  to  accompany  Mrs.  Reeves  to  London  has 
greatly  alarmed  your  three  lovers. 

She  went  to  town  to  visit  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Reeves, 
Harriet  Byron     who  seems  to  have  been  in  very  good  society,  and  here 

in  London.  J     '  J 

she  immediately  began  to  create  a  sensation,  for  you 
must  know  that  Harriet  was  very  beautiful,  besides  being 
perfection  in  every  other  respect.  You  learn  something 
about  this  in  the  second  letter,  addressed  by  Mr.  Greville 
to  Lady  Frampton.  Mr.  Greville  is  one  of  the  three 
original  lovers.  Greville  is  a  sad  dog,  but  being  a 
country  dog,  not  nearly  so  sad  a  clog  as  dogs  we  meet 
later,  but  he  is  madly  and  seriously  in  love  with  Miss 
Byron.  Amongst  a  great  many  other  things  in  his 
description  of  her  personal  charms,  he  says  : 

Her  cheek — I  never  saw  a  cheek  so  beautifully  turned ; 
illustrated  as  it  is  by  a  charming  carmine  flush  which  denotes 
sound  health.  A  most  bewitching  dimple  takes  place'  in  each 
when  she  smiles ;  and  she  has  so  much  reason  to  be  pleased 
with  herself  and  with  all  about  her  (for  she  is  the  idol  of  her 
relatives)  that  I  believe  from  infancy  she  never  frowned  ;  nor 
can  a  frown,  it  is  my  opinion,  sit  upon  her  face  fora  minute. 
Her  mouth — there  never  was  so  lovely  a  mouth.  But  no  won- 
der ;  since  such  rosy  lips  and  such  ivory  and  even  teeth  must 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  119 

give  beauty  to  a  mouth  less  charming  than  hers.  Her  nose — 
and  so  on,  through  a  letter  of  eight  pages,  devoted  to 
this  and  nothing  else. 

Lady  Betty  Williams,   being  charmed  with   Harriet,    The  masquer- 
persuaded  her  to  go  with  her  to  a  masquerade.     She  ade> 
had   misgivings   as   to   the   propriety  of  masquerades, 
duly  set  forth  in  her  letters  home,  which  she  diligently 
wrote  upon  daily  and  nightly.     For  we  are  in  the  middle 
of  the    first  volume,  and  at  the  twenty-second  letter, 
before  we  come  to  the  masquerade,  about  a  month  after 
her  arrival.     I  must  give  her  description  of  her  costume. 

Our  dresses  are  ready.  Mr.  Reeves  is  to  be  a  hermit,  Mrs. 
Reeves  a  nun,  Lady  Betty  a  lady  abbess,  but  I  by  no  means 
like  mine,  because  of  its  gaudiness  ;  the  very  thing  I  was 
afraid  of. 

They  call  it  the  dress  of  an  Arcadian  princess  ;  but  it  falls 
not  in  with  any  of  my  notions  of  the  pastoral  dress  of  Arcadia. 

A  white  Paris  net  sort  of  a  cap,  glittering  with  spangles  and 
encircled  by  a  chaplet  of  artificial  flowers,  with  a  little  white 
feather  peeking  from  the  left  ear,  is  to  be  my  head-dress. 

My  masque  is  Venetian. 

My  hair  is  to  be  complimented  with  an  appearance,  because 
of  its  natural  ringlets,  as  they  call  my  curls,  and  to  shade  my 
neck. 

Tucker  and  ruffles  blond  lace. 

My  shape  is  also  said  to  be  consulted  in  this  dress.  A  kind 
of  waistcoat  of  blue  satin  trimmed  with  silver  point  d'Espagne, 
the  skirts  edged  with  silver  fringe,  is  made  to  sit  close  to  my 
waist  by  double  clasps,  a  small  silver  tassel  at  the  end  of  each 
clasp  ;  all  set  off  with  bugles  and  spangles,  which  make  a 
mighty  glitter. 

But  I  am  to  be  allowed  a  kind  of  scarf  of  white  Persian    Her  costume, 
silk,    which,    gathered  at  the  top,  is  to  be  fastened  to   my 
shoulders,  and  to  fly  loose  behind  me. 

Bracelets  on  my  arms. 

They  would  have  given  me  a  crook  ;  but  I  would  not  submit 
to  that.  It  would  give  me,  I  said,  an  air  of  confidence  to  aim 
to  manage  it  with  any  tolerable  freedom  ;  and  I  was  appre- 


1 20    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Its  extrava- 
gance. 


Her  disappear- 
ance. 


hensive  that  I  should  not  be  thought  to  want  that  from  the 
dress  itself.  A  large  Indian  fan  was  not  improper  from  the 
expected  warmth  of  the  place,  and  that  contented  me. 

My  petticoat  is  of  blue  satin,  trimmed  and  fringed  as  my 
waistcoat.  I  am  not  to  have  a  hoop  that  is  perceivable.  They 
wore  not  hoops  in  Arcadia. 

What  a  sparkling  figure  shall  I  make  !  Had  the  ball  been 
what  they  call  a  subscription  ball,  at  which  people  dress  with 
more  glare  than  at  a  common  one,  this  dress  would  have  been 
more  tolerable. 

But  they  all  say  that  I  shall  be  kept  in  countenance  by 
masques  as  extravagant  and  even  more  ridiculous. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  wish  the  night  was  over.  I  dare  say  it 
will  be  the  last  diversion  of  this  kind  I  ever  shall  be  at ;  for  I 
never  had  any  notion  of  masquerades. 

Expect  particulars  of  all  in  my  next.  I  reckon  you  will  be 
impatient  for  them  ;  but  pray,  my  Lucy,  be  fanciful,  as  I  some- 
times am,  and  let  me  know  how  you  think  everything  will  be 
beforehand  ;  and  how  many  pretty  fellows  you  imagine  in  this 
dress  will  be  slain  by  your  HARRIET  BYRON. 

Her  misgivings  were  all  too  prophetic,  for  lo  !  the 
very  next  letter  begins  thus  : 

LETTER  XXIII. 
MR.  REEVES  TO  GEORGE  SELBY,  ESQ. 

Friday,  February  ijth. 

DEAR  MR.  SELBY:  No  one,  at  present,  but  yourself  must  see 
the  contents  of  what  I  am  going  to  write. 

You  must  not  be  too  much  surprised. 

But  how  shall  I  tell  you  the  news  ;  the  dreadful  news  ?  My 
wife  has  been  low  since  three  this  morning  in  violent  hysterics. 

You  must  not — but  how  shall  I  say_j'<?#  must  not  be  too  much 
affected,  when  we  are  unable  to  support  ourselves. 

Oh,  my  cousin  Selby !  We  know  not  what  is  become  of  our 
dearest  Miss  Byron  ! 

This  was  a  blow  !  And  now  for  nineteen  pages  there 
is  anguish  and  skurrying  around,  examining  chairmen 
and  valets  and  villains,  letters  between  the  anxious  peo- 
ple in  the  country  and  the  frantic  people  in  the  town, 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  121 

long  letters,  with  such  ejaculations  as  these  (from  Uncle 
Selby):  "Oh,  Mr.  Reeves  !  Dear,  sweet  child  !  Flower 
of  the  world  !  "  until  at  last  Mr.  Reeves  writes  : 

OH,  MY  DEAR  MR.  SELBY  :  We  have  tidings — God  be  praised  !   T... 
we  have  tidings — not  so  happy,  indeed,  as  were  to  be  wished  ; 
yet  the  dear  creature  is  living,  and  in  honorable  hands — God 
be  praised  ! 

Read  the  enclosed  letter  directed  to  me. 

"SiR  :  Miss  Byron  is  safe  and  in  honorable  hands.  The  first 
moment  she  could  give  any  account  of  herself  she  besought  me 
to  quiet  your  heart  and  your  lady's  with  this  information. 

"  She  has  been  cruelly  treated. 

"  Particulars  at  present  she  cannot  give. 

"  She  was  many  hours  speechless. 

"  But  don't  fright  yourselves  ;  her  fits,  though  not  less 
frequent,  are  weaker  and  weaker. 

"The  bearer  will  acquaint  you  who  my  brother  is,  to  whom 
you  owe  the  preservation  and  safety  of  the  loveliest  woman  in 
England,  and  he  will  direct  you  to  a  house  where  you  will  be 
welcome  with  your  lady  (for  Miss  Byron  cannot  be  removed) 
to  convince  yourselves  that  all  possible  care  is  taken  of  her, 
by,  sir,  "Your  humble  servant, 

"Friday,  February  17 th.  CHARLOTTE  GRANDISON." 

Mr.  Reeves  continues  : 

In  fits  !  Has  been  cruelly  treated  !  Many  hours  speech- 
less !  Cannot  be  removed  !  Her  solicitude,  though  hardly 
herself,  for  our  ease  !  Dearest,  dear  creature !  But  you  will 
rejoice  with  me,  my  cousins,  that  she  is  in  such  honorable 
hands.  She  is  at  a  nobleman's  house,  the  Earl  of  L.,  near  Found. 
Colnebrook. 

This  letter  was  written  by  the  sister  of  the  great,  the 
glorious  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  for  it  was  indeed  he 
who  had  the  good  fortune  and  the  bravery  to  rescue  the 
loveliest  woman  in  England  from  the  hands  of  a  wretch. 
This  wretch  was  not  the  sad  clog  Greville,  upon  whom 
suspicion  had  immediately  turned,  but  was  the  vile  Sir 
Harcrave  Pollexfen,  a  nobleman  who  saw  Harriet  on  her 


122    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

first  arrival  in  town  and  had  instantly  fallen  in  love  with 
her.  But  she  would  have  nought  of  him,  in  spite  of  his 
title  and  splendor,  and  brilliant  position,  for  his  reputa- 
tion was  that  of  a  rake.  She  had  had  time,  thus  early 
in  the  book,  to  refuse  his  advances  several  times,  where- 
upon he  devised  the  scheme  to  carry  her  off,  which  was 
perfectly  successful  in  the  outset.  It  is  long  before  the 
reader  becomes  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  ab- 
duction, which  we  finally  have  from  Harriet's  own  lips, 
or  rather  from  her  diligent  pen.  The  subject  covers  the 
rest  of  the  first  volume. 

Her  preserver.  Her  preserver  was  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  who, 
driving  to  town  one  morning  in  his  chariot  and  six, 
outriders  and  all,  encountered  another  chariot  and  six 
which  contained  Sir  Hargrave  Pollexfen  and  the  un- 
willing Miss  Byron.  Her  cries  attracted  Sir  Charles  to 
the  spot,  who  with  great  courage  and  presence  of  mind 
stopped  the  other  chariot.  He  is  telling  about  this 
himself  to  Mr.  Reeves  : 

"Sirrah,"  said  I  to  the  coachman  (for  he  lashed  his  horses 
on),  "  proceed  at  your  peril." 

Sir  Hargrave  then  with  violent  curses  and  threatenings 
ordered  him  to  drive  over  every  one  that  opposed  him. 

"Coachman,  proceed  at  your  peril,"  said  I.  "Madam,  will 
you — 

"O  sir,  sir,  sir,  relieve,  help  me,  for  God's  sake  !     I  am  in  a 

His  account         villain's  hands  !    Tricked,  vilely  tricked  into  a  villain's  hands  ! 
of  the  rescue.         Hejp>  help>  for  God>s  sake  ,  „ 

"Do  you,"  said  I  to  Frederick,  "cut  the  traces,  if  you 
cannot  otherwise  stop  this  chariot.  Bid  Jerry  cut  the  reins, 
and  then  slice  as  many  of  those  fellows  as  you  can.  Leave  Sir 
Hargrave  to  me." 

The  lady  continued  screaming  and  crying  out  for  help.  Sir 
Hargrave  drew  his  sword,  which  he  had  held  between  his 
knees  in  the  scabbard  ;  and  then  called  upon  his  servants  to 
fire  at  all  that  opposed  his  progress. 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  123 

"  My  servants,  Sir  Hargrave,  have  firearms  as  well  as  yours. 
They  will  not  dispute  my  orders.  Don't  provoke  me  to  give 
the  word." 

Then  addressing  the  lady,  "  Will  you,  madam,  put  yourself 
into  my  protection  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  yes,  yes,  with  all  my  heart.  Dear,  good  sir,  protect 
me!" 

I  opened  the  chariot  door.      Sir  Hargrave  made  a  pass  at   'j-^e  attack 
me.     "Take  that,  and  be  damned  to  you  for  your  insolence, 
scoundrel !  "  said  he. 

I  was  aware  of  his  thrust  and  put  it  by  ;  but  his  sword  a  little 
raked  my  shoulder. 

My  sword  was  in  my  hand,  but  undrawn. 

The  chariot-door  remaining  open  (I  was  not  so  ceremonious 
as  to  let  down  the  footsteps  to  take  the  gentleman  out),  I  seized 
him  by  the  collar,  before  he  could  recover  himself  from  the  pass 
he  had  made  at  me  ;  and,  with  a  jerk  and  a  kind  of  twist,  laid 
him  under  the  hind  wheel  of  his  chariot.  Sir  Hargrave's  face 
and  mouth  were  very  bloody.  I  believe  I  might  have  hurt  him 
with  the  pommel  of  my  sword. 

One  of  his  legs  in  his  sprawling  had  got  between  the  spokes 
of  his  chariot-wheel.  I  thought  that  was  a  fortunate  circumstance 
for  preventing  further  mischief,  and  charged  his  coachman  not 
to  stir  with  the  chariot  for  his  master's  sake. 

After  some  more  details,  Sir  Charles  goes  on  : 

The  lady,  though  greatly  terrified,  had  disengaged  herself 
from  the  man's  cloak.  I  had  not  leisure  to  consider  her  dress, 
but  I  was  struck  with  her  figure,  and  more  of  her  terror. 

And  then  he  breaks  off  the  narration  to  remark  : 

Have  you  not  read,  Mr.  Reeves  (Pliny  I  think  gives  the 
relation),  of  a  frighted  bird  that,  pursued  by  a  hawk,  flew  for  bj 
protection  into  the  bosom  of  a  man  passing  by  ?  In  like  man- 
ner your  lovely  cousin,  the  moment  I  returned  to  the  chariot- 
door,  instead  of  accepting  of  my  offered  hand,  threw  herself 
into  my  arms. 

He  continues  the  narration  at  great  length. 
Harriet    herself,   afterward,    was   in    great  tribulation 
about  this  deed  of  hers,  throwing  herself  thus  into  the 


124    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Fleet  marriage 
intended. 


Connections  of 
the  Grandison 
family. 


arms  of  a  stranger.  Such  lack  of  punctilio,  and  that 
stranger  the  great,  the  noble  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ! 

The  affair  was  now  at  an  end.  Sir  Hargrave  limped  to 
his  carriage,  cursing  and  threatening  vengeance,  and  Sir 
Charles  brought  the  lady  to  the  house  of  one  sister  and 
the  arms  of  another. 

It  was  the  intention  of  Sir  Hargrave  to  force  a 
marriage  upon  Miss  Byron,  the  ceremony  to  be  per- 
formed by  what  was  in  those  days  called  a  ' '  Fleet ' ' 
parson  and  his  clerk.  She  was  accordingly  carried  to  a 
house  in  Paddington  for  that  purpose,  but  she  made 
such  vigorous  resistance,  ' '  with  screams,  prayers,  and 
tears,"  that  Sir  Hargrave  in  terror  dismissed  the  parson 
and  resolved  to  carry  the  lady  in  the  chariot  to  his  seat 
at  Windsor,  in  order  to  be  married  there.  The  scheme 
was  frustrated  by  the  opportune  meeting  with  Sir 
Charles  Grandison. 

A  close  intimacy  is  now  established  between  Miss 
Byron  and  the  estimable  sisters  of  Sir  Charles,  and  it  is 
soon  to  be  seen  that  Harriet,  hitherto  obdurate  toward 
all  her  lovers,  is  surrendering  her  affections  to  this  "first 
of  men."  He,  you  must  know,  was  living,  not  at  his 
sister's,  but  in  town  in  St.  James's  Square. 

Harriet  is  presented  to  all  the  connections  of  the 
Grandison  family,  especially  his  married  sister  and  her 
husband,  Lord  L.  They  all  of  them  receive  Miss 
Byron  with  warmth  and  admiration.  Miss  Grandison 
is  of  a  sprightly  turn  and  does  pretty  much  all  the  wit 
of  the  book.  She  is  a  little  like  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 
who,  however,  could  not  bear  her. 

Harriet  made  a  long  visit  at  Colnebrook  with  the 
sisters,  where  Miss  Grandison,  ever  obliging,  indulged 
her  in  her  choice  of  having  a  room  to  herself,  upon 
which  she  writes  :  "I  shall  have  the  more  leisure  for 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  125 

writing  to  you,  my  dear  friend";  a  leisure  which  she 
stretches  to  the  utmost,  as  everything  that  is  said,  done, 
or  thought  by  the  three  ladies  is  faithfully  recorded  for 
the  enjoyment  of  the  excellent  family  at  Selby  House. 

Even  on  the  way  from  London  to  Colnebrook,  ' '  the 
conversation  in  the  coach  turned  upon  the  Grandison 
family,  from  which  I  gathered  the  following  particu- 
lars." As  these  particulars  take  up  nearly  the  whole  of 
one  volume,  it  would  seem  that  the  distance  was  long  ; 
but,  to  be  fair,  there  are  breaks  in  the  narrative,  and  the 
good  ladies  were  more  than  a  week  in  relating  it  and 
Harriet  in  transcribing  it  to  her  family.  All  that  we  History  of  the 
need  know  is  that  their  father,  Sir  Thomas,  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  of  his  time,  was  a  dissipated  char- 
acter who  did  his  best  to  squander  a  large  fortune 
inherited  from  a  frugal  father.  Their  mother,  Lady 
Grandison,  was  the  most  excellent  of  women.  She 
died  early,  leaving  the  daughters  to  live  with  their 
father,  while  Sir  Charles  was  sent  abroad  for  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  tour.  His  two  sisters  had  but  a  hard 
time  of  it  in  his  absence,  owing  to  the  severity  of 
their  father  and  the  indecorum  of  his  way  of  living. 
This  was  brought  to  a  close  by  the  alarming  illness  and 
death  of  Sir  Thomas,  which  caused  the  return  of  Sir 
Charles,  who  started  at  once  for  England  on  the  notifi- 
cation by  his  sister  of  his  father's  danger,  but  arrived 
too  late. 

Judge,  my  dear  Lucy  [says  Harriet  at  this  point],  from  the 
foregoing  circumstances  how  awful  must  be  to  the  sisters,  after    Return  of  Sir 
eight  or  nine  years'  absence,  the  first  appearance  of  a  brother 
on  whom  the  whole  of  their  fortunes  depended. 

In  the  same  moment  he  alighted  from  his  post-chaise  the 
door  was  opened  ;  he  entered,  and  his  two  sisters  met  him  in 
the  hall. 

The  graceful  youth  of  seventeen,  with  fine  curling  auburn 


126    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

locks  waving  upon  his  shoulders  ;  delicate  in  complexion  ;  in- 
telligence sparkling  in  his  fine  free  eyes  ;  and  good  humor 
sweetening  his  lively  features,  they  remembered  ;  and,  forget- 
ting the  womanly  beauties  into  which  their  own  features  were 
ripened  in  the  same  space  of  time,  they  seemed  not  to  expect 
that  manly  stature  and  air  and  that  equal  vivacity  and  intre- 
pidity, which  every  one  who  sees  this  brother  admires  in  his 
noble  aspect ;  an  aspect  then  appearing  more  solemn  than 
usual,  an  unburied  and  beloved  father  in  his  thoughts. 

Sir  Charles  was  now  twenty-five ;  he  had  been  absent 
eight  years  on  his  travels. 

"O  my  brother!"  said  Caroline,  with  open  arms  (she  was 
e  °f  the  the  oldest  of  the  family),  but,  shrinking  from  his  embrace, 
"  May  I  say,  my  brother — "  and  was  just  fainting.  He  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  to  support  her. 

Charlotte,  surprised  at  her  sister's  emotion,  and  affected  with 
his  presence,  ran  back  into  the  room  they  had  both  quitted, 
and  threw  herself  upon  a  settee. 

The  reason  the  sisters  were  so  alarmed  was  that  Sir 
Thomas  had  been  representing  them  to  his  son  as  dis- 
obedient, naughty  girls.  He  had  not  approved  of  the 
addresses  of  Lord  L. ,  Caroline's  lover,  and  Charlotte 
had  boldly  encouraged  her  sister's  affair.  As  Charles 
was  heir  to  his  father,  and  therefore  would  now  control 
their  destinies,  his  favor  was  of  grave  importance. 

Her  brother  followed  her  into  the  room,  his  arm  round  Miss 
His  affection.  .  .  . 

Caroline  s  waist,  soothing  her;  and  with  eyes  of  expectation, 

"My  Charlotte!"  said  he,  his  inviting  hand  held  out,  and 
hastening  toward  the  settee.  She  then  found  her  feet,  and 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  he  folded  both  sisters  to  his 
bosom.  "  Receive,  my  dearest  sisters,  receive  your  brother, 
your  friend." 

After  a  few  words  "he  pressed  the  hand  of  each  to 
his  lips,  arose,  went  to  the  window,  and  drew  out  his 
handkerchief,"  then,  shortly,  "cast  his  eye  on  his 
father's  and  mother's  pictures  with  some  emotion  ;  then 
on  them  ;  and  again  saluted  each." 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  127 

They  withdrew.  He  waited  on  them  to  the  stairs'  head. 
"Sweet  obligingness!  Amiable  sisters!  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  I  seek  your  presence."  Tears  of  joy  trickled  down  their 
cheeks.  In  half  an  hour  he  joined  them  in  another  dress,  and 
re-saluted  his  sisters  with  an  air  of  tenderness  that  banished 
fear  and  left  room  for  nothing  but  sisterly  love. 

Everything  now  went  finely  for  the  sisters.     At  the  Caroline 
end  of  eight  months  Sir  Charles  gave  Caroline  with  his  marrles- 
own  hand  to  Lord  L.     Charlotte  subsequently  married 
Lord  G. ,  but  at  this  period  she  had  not  made  up  her 
mind  to  do  so.     Sir  Charles  announced  his  intention, 
which  I  have  no  doubt  he  carried  out, 

to  dispose  of  his  racers,  hunters,  and  dogs  as  soon  as  he 
could  ;  to  take  a  survey  of  the  timber  upon  his  estate,  and  sell 
that  which  would  be  the  worse  for  standing  ;  and  doubted  not 
but  that  a  part  of  it  in  Hampshire  would  turn  to  good  account ; 
but  that  he  would  plant  an  oakling  for  every  oak  he  cut  down, 
for  the  sake  of  posterity. 

Now  followed  delightful  days.  Sir  Charles  was  very 
busy  in  settling  the  affairs  of  his  estate,  with  the  execu-  d>aysSfhtful 
tors,  and  also  in  making  all  those  persons  comfortable 
and  happy  whom  his  father  had  succeeded  in  making 
miserable.  Harriet  became  deeply  interested  in  these 
matters,  and  described  them  at  great  length  in  her 
letters.  Meanwhile  his  frequent  visits  to  his  sisters  and 
his  evident  admiration  of  Miss  Byron  not  only  increased 
her  inclination  toward  him,  but  set  the  sisters  to  desir- 
ing a  match  between  the  prince  of  men  and  the  angel  of 
her  sex. 

During  this  time  Harriet's  admirers  increased  in  num- 
ber, and  offers  of  marriage  came  in  from  every  side  :  Harriet's 

£>  J  '    admirers. 

she  steadily  refused  them,  and  this  gave  rise  to  the  ques- 
tion whether  her  heart  was  still  free.  It  was  awkward, 
in  those  days  of  delicacy  and  punctilio,  even  more  than 
it  would  be  now,  for  her  to  admit  to  herself  and  others 


128    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

a  predilection  in  favor  of  a  gentleman  who,  in  spite  of 

his  evident  admiration,  made  no  sign  of  a  deeper  regard. 

Why  did  he  not  ?  This,  after  Harriet's  natural  coyness 

A  theme  for        was  overcome,  became  a  frequent  theme  for  speculation 

speculation. 

with  the  three  ladies.  It  was  evident  that  something  m 
the  course  of  his  travels,  during  eight  years'  absence, 
had  occurred  which  stood  in  the  way.  As  matter  of 
fact  they  were  devoured  with  curiosity. 

To  satisfy  this  curiosity  these  ladies,  if  I  may  use  the 
expression,  put  Harriet  up  to  compassing  about  the 
excellent  Dr.  Ambrose  Bartlett,  the  former  tutor  of  Sir 
Charles,  and  now  his  close  counselor  and  friend. 

Harriet  one  day  writes  to  her  Lucy  that  her  host,  Lord 
L. ,  and  her  two  hostesses,  being  now  pretty  much  ab- 
sorbed in  reading  all  the  mass  of  her  letters  about  the 
masquerade,  which  at  their  request  she  had  sent  for 
to  Selby  House, 

gives  me  an  opportunity  of  pursuing  my  o\vn  desires — and 
what,  besides  scribbling,  do  you  think  one  of  them  is  ?  A  kind 
of  persecution  of  Dr.  Bartlett,  by  which,  however,  I  suspect 
that  I  am  myself  the  greatest  sufferer.  He  is  an  excellent  man, 
and  I  make  no  difficulty  of  going  to  him  in  his  closet,  en- 
couraged by  his  assurances  of  welcome. 

Let  me  stop  to  say,  my  Lucy,  that  when  I  approach  this  good 
man  in  his  retirement,  surrounded  by  his  books,  his  table 
covered  generally  with  those  on  pious  subjects,  I,  in  my  heart, 
congratulate  the  saint  and  inheritor  of  future  glory  ;  and,  in 
that  great  view,  am  the  more  desirous  to  cultivate  his  friend- 
ship. 

She  admits  that  although  their  conferences  begin  with 

Conversations         ,  ,       ,  .._,.... 

with  Dr.  the  great  and  glorious  truths  or  Christianity,  they  drift 

Bartlett.  round  to  the  subject  of  Sir  Charles,  which  is  but  natural, 

as  the  one  subject,  sublime  as  it  is,  brings  on  the  other. 
The  good    doctor  took  it  kindly,   and  in   time  fur- 
nished Harriet  with  the  history  of  his  first  intimacy  with 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  129 

Sir  Charles,  which  he  had  already  written  down,  with 
the  permission  to  communicate  to  the  ladies  the  revela- 
tion of  all  that  had  happened  on  the  Continent  during 
their  absence.  Her  kind  friends  in  the  meantime  were 
working  upon  the  doctor  in  Harriet' s  absence  to  dis- 
cover what  he  knew  of  the  state  of  Sir  Charles'  s  affec- 
tions, in  what  we  should  now  call  a  shameless  manner. 
Of  course  all  this  came  to  Miss  Byron's  ears,  and  she 
repeated  it  in  her  letters.  For  instance  : 

Miss  G.  Pray,  doctor,  is  there  any  one  lady  (we  imagine 
there  is)  that  he  has  preferred  to  another  in  the  different 
nations  he  has  traveled  through  ?  Curiosity  of 

Lord  L.  Ay,  doctor,  we  want  to  know  this  ;  and  if  you 
thought  there  were  not,  we  should  make  no  scruple  to  explain 
ourselves,  as  well  as  Miss  Byron,  to  our  brother. 

Don't  you  long  to  know  [inserts  Harriet]  what  answer  the 
doctor  returned  to  this,  Lucy  ?  I  was  out  of  breath  with  impa- 
tience when  Miss  Grandison  repeated  it  to  me. 

The  doctor  hesitated — and  at  last  said  :  "I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  Miss  Byron  could  be  Lady  Grandison." 

Miss  G.     Could  be  ? 

"  Coutdbe,"  said  each. 

And  "could  be"  said  the  fool  to  Miss  Grandison  when  she 
repeated  it,  her  heart' quite  sunk. 

This  was  all  they  could  elicit  for  the  moment,  for 
Harriet  adds,  ' '  The  doctor,  it  seems,  bowed  but  answered  Interview  with 
not."  However,  after  another  half- volume  devoted  to 
accounts  of  Sir  Charles's  generosity  to  dependents  of  all 
sorts,  a  day  came  (Harriet  was  staying  on  at  Colnebrook 
all  this  time)  when  he  requested  a  private  interview 
with  her.  Imagine  the  agitation  of  the  little  circle. 

"Admirable  Miss  Byron,"  said  Sir  Charles  as  soon  as  he 
came  in  to  breakfast,  and  then  made  the  request ;  then  later  : 
"  May  I  hope,  madam,  by  and  by,  for  the  honor  of  your  hand 
to  my  lord's  library  ?  " 

"Sir,  I  will— I  will— attend  you,"  hesitated  the  simpleton. 


130    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

The  conversation  began  with  some  comments  on  the 
behavior  of  his  sister,  Miss  Grandison,  concerning  a 
suitor  of  hers,  Lord  G.,  which  Sir  Charles  could  not 
quite  approve,  and  he  said  so.  Harriet  writes  :  ' '  My 
spirits  were  not  high  ;  I  was  forced  to  take  out  my  hand- 
kerchief." 

When  he  was  ready  for  the  main  subject,  he  thus 
began  : 

"  There  seems,"  said  he,  "to  be  a  mixture  of  generous  con- 
cern and  kind  curiosity  in  one  of  the  loveliest  and  most  intelli- 
gent faces  in  the  world.  My  sisters  have  in  your  presence 
expressed  a  great  deal  of  the  latter.  Had  I  not  been  myself  in 
a  manner  uncertain  as  to  the  event  which  must  govern  my 
of"hi?future  future  destiny,  I  would  have  gratified  it ;  especially  as  my  Lord 
L.  has  of  late  joined  in  it.  The  crisis,  I  told  them,  however,  as 
perhaps  you  remember,  was  at  hand." 

"I  do  remember  you  said  so,  sir."  And  indeed,  Lucy,  it 
was  more  than  perhaps.  I  had  not  thought  of  any  words  half  so 
often  since  he  spoke  them. 

"The  crisis,  madam,  is  at  hand.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
indulge  me,  I  will  briefly  lay  before  you  a  few  of  the  difficulties 
of  my  situation  and  leave  it  to  you  to  communicate  them  to  my 
two  sisters  and  Lord  L." 

At  great  length,  thirty-three  pages  without  a  break, 
His  sojourn  on     Sir  Charles  now  entered  upon  and  continued  the  narra- 

the  Continent.         ,  .  .... 

tion  of  certain  events  during  his  sojourn  on  the  Conti- 
nent. Harriet  listened  breathless  ;  occasionally  she  was 
moved  to  tears,  and  once  "  he  stopt — his  handkerchief 
was  of  use  to  him  as  mine  was  to  me — what  a  distress 
was  here." 
He  began  : 

At  Bologna,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  Urbino,  are  seated 
two  branches  of  a  noble  family,  marquises  and  counts  of 
Porretta,  which  boasts  its  pedigree  from  Roman  princes  and  has 
given  to  the  church  two  cardinals  ;  one  in  the  latter  age,  one  in 
the  beginning  of  this. 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  131 

The  Marchese  della  Porretta,  who  resides  in  Bologna,  is  a   The  porretta 
nobleman  of  great  merit ;  his  lady  is  illustrious  by  descent  and    family, 
still  more  for  her  goodness  of  heart,  sweetness  of  temper,  and 
prudence.    They  have  three  sons  and  a  daughter. 

"Ah,  that  daughter,"  thought  Harriet. 

After  describing  them  thus,  Sir  Charles  continued  : 

The  sister  is  the  favorite  of  them  all.  She  is  lovely  in  her 
person,  gentle  in  her  manners,  pious,  charitable,  beneficent. 
Her  father  used  to  call  her  "the  pride  of  his  life,"  her  mother, 
"  her  other  self,  her  own  Clementina." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Clementina  the 
rival  of 
Harriet. 


Milton 
expounded. 


IT  is  evident  that  Clementina  is  the  rival  of  Harriet 
Byron  in  the  affections  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison. 

The  story  briefly  is  this  :  Sir  Charles  rescued  Jeronymo 
della  Porretta,  already  his  friend,  from  an  attack  of 
ruffians  in  a  little  thicket  "in  the  Cremonese."  The 
young  count  was  wounded  severely,  and  Sir  Charles 
procured  a  surgeon,  attended  him  to  Cremona,  and 
watched  over  him  there  till  he  could  be  removed.  His 
whole  family  came  to  the  bedside  of  their  beloved  son 
and  brother,  and  all  joined  to  bless  his  preserver. 
Never  was  there  a  more  grateful  family.  They  urged 
him  to  visit  them  at  their  various  seats.  Meanwhile 
Sir  Charles  initiated  them  into  the  knowledge  of  the 
English  tongue  by  reading  and  expounding  Milton  to 
them.  He  told  Harriet : 

Our  Milton  has  deservedly  a  name  among  them  from  the 
friendship  that  subsisted  between  him  and  a  learned  nobleman 
of  that  country.  Our  lectures  were  usually  held  in  the  chamber 
of  the  wounded  brother,  in  order  to  divert  him.  He  also 
became  my  scholar.  Clementina  was  seldom  absent.  She  also 
called  me  her  tutor,  and  she  made  a  greater  proficiency  than 
either  of  her  brothers. 

Clementina  had  a  suitor,  favored  by  all  her  family  ; 
she  continually  refused  him,  and  upon  being  pressed  and 
closely  examined  it  became  evident  that  she  was  in  love 
with  the  English  chevalier.  Sir  Charles,  whose  conduct 
was  perfectly  honorable  in  the  matter,  resolved  to  with- 
draw, and  did  so  ;  but  after  his  departure  she  grew  mel- 
ancholy, and  even  out  of  her  mind,  expressing  her  desire 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  133 

to  go  into  a  nunnery  ;  all  was  in  vain,  until  a  wise  and 
judicious  friend  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  malady  and 
advised  the  family  thereupon.  The  tutor  was  sent  for. 
This  is  Sir  Charles's  delicate  manner  of  explaining 
what  is  coming  : 

"He  arrived  at  Bologna.  He  was  permitted  to  pay  his 
compliments  to  Lady  Clementina.  Jeronymo  called  the  happy 
man  'brother.'  The  marquis  was  ready  to  recognize  the  fourth 
son  in  him.  A  great  fortune  additional  to  an  estate  bequeathed 
her  by  her  two  grandfathers  was  proposed.  My  father  was  to 
be  invited  over  to  grace  the  nuptials  by  his  presence. 

"But,"  continued  Sir  Charles,  "let  me  cut  short  the  rest. 

The  terms  could  not  be  complied  with.     For  I  was  to  make  a    Proposals  of 
r  i  •    i-  c  i-    •  j  A         ^i     •     TA  i  i       the  Porretta 

formal  renunciation  of  my  religion,  and  to  settle  in  Italy  ;  only   family. 

•once  in  two  or  three  years  was  allowed  if  I  pleased  for  two  or 
three  months  to  go  to  England."  [It  was  here  that  his  hand- 
kerchief was  of  use  to  him.] 

He  went  on  :  "  Satisfied  in  my  own  faith,  entirely  satisfied  ! 
Having  insuperable  objections  to  that  I  was  wished  to  embrace! 
A  lover  of  my  country  too.  Were  not  my  God  and  my 
country  to  be  the  sacrifice  if  I  complied  !  but  I  labored,  I 
studied,  for  a  compromise." 

But  no  compromise  was  to  be  had.  Sir  Charles  was 
allowed,  desired,  to  depart  from  Bologna ;  and  shortly 
afterward,  summoned  by  the  death  of  his  father,  he  re- 
turned to  England,  regarding  this  action  as  final.  En*  land™ to 

But  what  was  the  consequence.  In  agitation  he  con- 
tinues : 

"Unhappy  Clementina!  Now  they  wish  me  to  make  them 
one  more  visit  to  Bologna  !  Unhappy  Clementina  !  To  what 
purpose !  " 

He  arose  from  his  seat,  "Allow  me,  madam,  to  thank  you  for 
the  favor  of  your  ear.  Pardon  me  for  the  trouble  I  see  I  have 
given  to  a  heart  that  is  capable  of  a  sympathy  so  tender." 

And  bowing  low,  he  withdrew  with  precipitation. 

There  was  endless  discussion,  in  Richardson's  coterie, 
whether  Sir  Charles  was  in  love,  or  not,  with  Clementina 


134    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

at  this  point.      I  have  omitted  nothing  in  the  account  of 
Sentiments  of      the  interview  just  given  which  would  give  a  clue  to  his 

Sir  Charles.  '         ° 

feelings,  and  have  read  the  whole  episode  through  many 
times  with  great  care  to  find  some  acknowledgment  or 
denial  of  his  ardor  for  the  Italian  lady.  Some  of  his 
admirers  thought  that  he  returned  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
or  a  heart  left  behind  ;  others,  on  the  contrary,  that  he 
was  untouched  by  the  pathetic  charms  of  Clementina, 
and  therefore  heart-whole  when  he  first  beheld  Miss 
Byron.  Others  imagine  that  the  dazzling  image  of  Miss 
Byron  drove  the  fainter  impression  from  its  hold  upon 
his  affections.  Then  some  people  regard  Sir  Charles  as 
a  being  so  cold  as  to  be  incapable  of  an  ardent  attach- 
ment. I  for  my  part  believe  he  cared  nothing  at  all  for 
Clementina ;  still,  I  am  not  sure  that  Richardson  has 
not  somewhere  said  that  he  did  care  for  her ;  and  he 
should  know. 

There  was  dismay    in  the  circle  of  Harriet's  friends 
Dismay  of          when  it  was  revealed  that  Sir  Charles  Grandison  was  not 

Harriet's 

friends.  altogether  free  to  lay  himself  at  her  feet.  Her  mind 

turns  toward  her  home  in  the  country,  and  she  warns 
everybody  that  she  is  about  to  go  back. 

Sir  Charles  was  quietly  winding  up  his  affairs  and  pre- 
paring to  depart  for  Italy,  with  the  intention  of  taking 
with  him  an  accomplished  surgeon  of  his  acquaintance, 
to  examine  the  wounds  of  Jeronymo,  which  were  still 
extremely  troublesome.  This  is  the  nominal  excuse  for 
his  return  to  Bologna,  but  every  one  feels  that  another 
wound  requires  his  healing  presence,  in  the  heart  of 
Clementina. 

Just  before  leaving,  Sir  Charles  sought  another  inter- 
view with  Harriet. 

He  led  me  to  my  seat,  and  taking  his  by  me,  still  holding  my 
passive  hand:  "Ever  since  I  have  had  the  honor  of  Miss 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  135 

Byron's  acquaintance  I  have  considered  her  as  one  of  the  most 
excellent  of  women.     My  heart  desires  alliance  with  hers,  and   Another  inter- 
hopes  to  be  allowed  its  claim,  though  such  are  the  delicacies  of  Vlew- 
the  situation  that  I  scarcely  dare  to  trust  myself  to  speak  upon 
the  subject.     From  the  first,  I  called  Miss  Byron  my  sister  ;  but 
she  is  more  to  me  than  the  dearest  sister  ;  and  there  is  a  more 
tender  friendship  that  I  aspire  to  hold  with  her,  whatever  may 
be  the  accidents  on  either  side,  to  bar  a  further  wish  ;  and  this 
I  must  hope  that  she  will  not  deny  me,  so  long  as  it  shall  be 
consistent  with  her  other  attachments." 

He  paused.  I  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  speech  was 
denied  me.  My  face,  as  I  felt,  glowed  like  the  fire  before  me. 

"  My  heart,"  resumed  he,"  is  ever  on  my  lips.  It  is  tortured 
when  I  cannot  speak  all  that  is  in  it.  Professions  I  am  not  ac- 
customed to  make.  As  I  am  not  conscious  of  being  unworthy 
of  your  friendship,  I  will  suppose  it,  and  further  talk  to  you  of 
my  affairs  and  engagements  as  that  tender  friendship  may 
warrant." 

"  Sir,  you  do  me  honor,"  was  all  I  could  say. 

He  then  explained  his  intentions  as  to  the  course  of 
his  journey  and  talked  of  arrangements  at  home, 
amongst  others  the  wedding  of  Charlotte  Grandison  and 
Lord  G. ,  which  the  brother  was  anxious  to  see  consum- 
mated before  his  departure. 

And  there  was  a  great  wedding,  described  at  length  ; 

_.  ,     ,  f      ..   .  .         .        Charlotte 

Charlotte  behaving  in  a  very  roolish  manner,  under  the  Grandison's 

.  .  11111         wedding. 

guise  of  coyness  or  wit ;  even  when  she  was  led  to  the 
altar  "her  levity  did  not  forsake  her,"  Harriet  says. 
It  was  only  a  family  party,  however. 

Between  dinner  and  tea,  at  Lady  L.'s  motion,  they  made  me 
play  on  the  harpsichord  ;  and  after  one  lesson  they  besought 
Sir  Charles  to  sing  to  my  playing.  He  would  not,  he  said, 
deny  any  request  that  was  made  him  on  that  day. 

He  sung.  He  has  a  mellow  manly  voice,  and  great  command 
of  it. 

This  introduced  a  little  concert.  Mr.  Beauchamp  took  the 
violin,  Lord  L.  the  bass  viol,  Lord  G.  the  German  flute,  and 


136    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

most  of  the  company  joined  in  the  chorus.     The  song  was  from 
"Alexander's  Feast"  ;  the  words, 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair, 
None  but  the  good  deserve  the  fair, 

Sir  Charles,  though  himself  equally  both  brave  and  good,  pre- 
ferring the  latter  word  to  the  former. 

The  next  letter  begins  : 

Saturday  morning,  April  i$th. 

Oh,   Lucy,  Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  gone  !    Gone,  indeed  \ 
Departure  of         ,T  ,    ,,  ...  .  ,      ,  , 

Sir  Charles.         He  set  out  at  three  this  morning ;  on  purpose,  no  doubt,  to 

spare  his  sisters  and  friends,  as  well  as  himself,  concern. 

The  letter  is  filled  with  an  account  of  the  last  evening, 
broken  by  such  exclamations  as  : 

Angel  of  a  man  !  How  is  he  beloved  !  Lie  down,  hope. 
Hopelessness,  take  place.  Clementina  shall  be  his.  He  shall 
be  hers. 

She  was  now  to  return  to  Selby  House,  and  did  so, 
putting  up  at  Dunstable  on  Friday  night.  Mr.  Beau- 
champ  (a  cousin  of  the  Grandisons)  and  Mr.  Reeves 
rode  as  her  escort.  Lord  L.  and  Lord  G.  also  obliged 
her  with  their  company  on  horseback. 

After  this,  the  scene  is  at  Selby  House,  and  Harriet  is 

"furjfto  writing  to  Lady  G.  with  the  same  fidelity  that  she  had 

Selby  House.      done  to  her  Lucy.     In  return,  every  scrap  of  news  from 

the  travelers  is  forwarded  to  her  by  Dr.  Bartlett  or  the 

Grandison  ladies.     The  first  is  a  long  letter  from  Mr. 

Lowther,    the   surgeon,    describing   their  passage  over 

the  Alps  in  the  most  dismal  manner  : 

The  unseasonable  coldness  of  the  weather  (it  was  May) 
and  the  sight  of  one  of  the  worst  countries  under  heaven,  still 
clothed  with  snow  and  deformed  by  continual  hurricanes. 

They  reached  the  foot  of  Mount  Cenis  at  break  of  day, 
at  Lanebourg  (Lansleburg?), 

a  poor  little  village,  so  environed  by  high  mountains  that  for 
three  months  in  the  twelve  it  is  hardly  visited  by  the  cheering 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  137 

rays  of  the  sun.  Here  it  is  usual  to  unscrew  and  take  in  pieces 
the  chaises  in  order  to  carry  them  on  mules  over  the  mountain, 
and  to  put  them  together  on  the  other  side  ;  for  the  Savoy  side 
of  the  mountain  is  much  more  difficult  to  pass  than  the  other. 
But  Sir  Charles  chose  not  to  lose  time  ;  and,  therefore,  left  the 
chaise  to  the  care  of  the  inn-keeper. 

They  were  each  carried  on  "  a  kind  of  horse  with  two 
poles,  on  which  is  secured  a  sort  of  elbow-chair."     A    • 
man    before,   another    behind,    carried    this    machine, 
running   and   skipping   like   wild   goats   from   rock  to 
rock,   four  miles  of  that  ascent. 

Sir  Horace  Walpole's  veritable  account  is  almost  the 
same  as  this. 

Sir  Charles  now  addressed  his  letters  to  Dr.  Bartlett,    Letters  to  Dr. 
with  the  full  understanding  that  they  were  to  be  given  to 
his  sisters  for  perusal,  including  Miss  Byron. 

He  writes  from  Bologna,  June  14-25: 

Having  the  honor  of  an  invitation  to  a  conversation  visit,  I 
went  to  the  palace  of  Porretta  in  the  morning.  After  sitting 
about  half  an  hour  with  my  friend  Jeronymo,  I  was  admitted  to 
the  presence  of  Lady  Clementina.  Her  parents  and  the  bishop 
were  with  her.  "Clementina,  chevalier,"  said  her  mother, 
"  was  inquiring  for  you.  She  is  desirous  to  recover  her  English. 
Are  you  willing,  sir,  to  undertake  your  pupil  again  ?  " 

"Ah,  chevalier,"  said  the  young  lady,  "those  were  happy 
times  and  I  want  to  recover  them.  I  want  to  be  as  happy  as  I 
was  then." 

"You  have  not  been  very  well,  madam  ;  and  is  it  not  better 
to  defer  our  lectures  for  some  days,  till  you  are  quite  estab- 
lished in  your  health  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  is  the  thing.  I  know  that  I  am  not  yet  quite  well, 
and  I  want  to  be  so  ;  and  that  is  the  reason  that  I  would  recover 
my  English." 

"  You  will  soon  recover  it,  madam,  when  you  begin.     But  at    interv;ew  wjt 
present  the  thought,   the   memory,   it  would   require  you  to   Clementina, 
exert  would  perplex  you.     I  am  afraid  the  study  would  rather 
retard  than  forward  your  recovery." 


1 38    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"Why,  now,  I  did  not  expect  this  from  you,  sir.  My  mama 
has  consented." 

"I  did,  my  dear,  because  I  would  deny  you  nothing  that  your 
heart  was  set  upon  ;  but  the  chevalier  has  given  you  such  good 
reasons  to  suspend  his  lectures  that  I  wish  you  would  not 
be  earnest  in  your  request." 

"  But  I  can't  help  it,  madam.     I  want  to  be  happy." 

"Well,  madam,  let  us  begin  now.  What  English  book  have 
you  at  hand?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  will  fetch  one." 

She  slipt  out,  Camilla  [the  maid]  after  her ;  and  the  poor 
Her  impaired  lady,  forgetting  her  purpose,  brought  down  some  of  her  own 
work,  the  first  thing  that  came  to  hand  out  of  a  drawer  that  she 
pulled  out  in  her  dressing-room,  instead  of  looking  in  her  book- 
case. It  is  an  unfinished  piece  of  Noah's  Ark  and  the  rising 
deluge,  the  execution  admirable.  And  coming  to  me,  "I 
wonder  where  it  has  lain  all  this  time.  Are  you  a  judge  of 
women's  work,  chevalier?" 

She  went  to  the  table.  "  Come  hither,  and  sit  down  by  me." 
I  did.  "Madam,"  to  her  mother,  "my  lord,"  to  her  brother, 
"come  and  sit  down  by  the  chevalier  and  me."  They  did.  She 
spread  it  on  the  table,  and  in  an  attentive  posture,  her  elbow 
on  the  table,  her  head  on  one  hand,  pointing  with  the  finger  of 
the  other,  "  Now  tell  me  your  opinion  of  this  work." 

I  praised,  as  it  deserved,  the  admirable  finger  of  the  work- 
woman. "  Do  you  know,  that's  mine,  sir?  But  tell  me — every- 
body can  praise — do  you  see  no  fault  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  is  one,"  said  I,  and  pointed  to  a  disproportion 
that  was  pretty  obvious. 

"Why,  so  it  is.     I  never  knew  you  to  be  a  flatterer." 

"Men  who  can  find  fault  more  gracefully,"  said  the  bishop, 
£>mplimeent.  " than  others  praise,  need  not  flatter." 

"Why,  that  is  true,"  said  she.  She  sighed;  "I  was  happy 
when  I  was  about  this  work.  And  the  drawing  was  my  own 
too,  after — after — I  forget  the  painter.  But  you  think  it 
tolerable — do  you?" 

"  I  think  it,  upon  the  whole,  very  fine  ;  if  you  could  rectify 
that  one  fault,  it  would  be  a  masterpiece." 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  try,  since  you  like  it."  She  rolled  it  up. 
"Camilla,  let  it  be  put  on  my  toilette." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THIS  Clementina  episode,  which  is  spun  out  to  great 
length,  was  to  many  of  the  coterie  the  most  touching 
and  admirable  part  of  the  work.  The  character  of  TheCiemen- 

1  tina  episode. 

Clementina,  and  her  sufferings  (most  of  which  I  have 
omitted)  caused  by  the  unkindness  or  want  of  judgment 
of  her  keepers  and  guardians,  caused  buckets  of  tears  to 
be  shed  by  the  readers  of  Richardson,  while  the  anguish 
of  suspense  endured  by  the  good  people  at  home,  I 
mean  the  people  in  the  book  who  were  interested  in  the 
fate  of  Harriet,  was  shared  by  all  London. 

As  for  me,  I  never  cared  very  much  about  the  Italian 
part  of  the  book.  Lady  Mary  is  quite  right  when  she  Richardson's 

.  ~  ignorance  of 

says  Richardson  is  no  more  acquainted  with  Italy  than  Italy, 
he  is  with  the  Kingdom  of  Mancomingo.  It  is  quite  extra- 
ordinary that  a  man  of  Sir  Charles's  cultivation  should  be 
capable  of  traveling  for  eight  years  on  the  Continent, 
tarrying  especially  in  the  cities  of  Italy,  to  bring  home 
so  little  material  with  which  to  adorn  his  conversation. 
I  do  not  remember  his  even  mentioning  the  works  of 
art,  paintings,  sculpture,  which  must  have  already  existed 
in  those  towns  ;  the  St.  Cecilia  of  Raphael  must  have  been 
hanging  in  the  cathedral  of  Bologna ;  to  be  sure,  his 
religious  convictions  would  have  prevented  his  entering 
it.  Apart  from  this,  my  interests  are  on  the  side  of 
Harriet  Byron,  and  I  am  always  glad  to  get  him  safe 
home  again,  away  from  the  entanglements  of  the 
Porretta  family. 

Miss  Byron  writes  to  Lady  G.  from  Selby  House,  after 
ample  comments  on  the  Italian  letters  forwarded  to  her  : 


Miss  Byron's 
letters  from 
Selby  House. 


140    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

As  to  my  health,  I  would  fain  be  well.  I  am  more  sorry  that 
I  am  not  for  the  sake  of  my  friends  (who  are  incessantly  griev- 
ing for  me)  than  for  my  own.  I  have  not,  I  think  I  have  not, 
anything  to  reproach  myself  with,  nor  yet  anybody  to  reproach 
me.  To  whom  have  I  given  cause  of  triumph  over  me  by  my 
ill  usage  or  insolence  to  them  ?  I  yield  to  an  event  to  which  I 
ought  to  submit ;  and  to  a  woman  not  less,  but  more  worthy 
than  myself;  and  who  has  a  prior  claim. 

I  long  to  hear  of  the  meeting  of  this  noble  pair.  May  it  be 
propitious  !  May  Sir  Charles  Grandison  have  the  satisfaction 
and  the  merit  with  the  family  of  being  the  means  of  restoring  to 
reason  (a  greater  restoration  than  to  health)  the  woman,  every 
faculty  of  whose  soul  ought  in  that  case  to  be  devoted  to  God 
and  to  him  !  Methinks  I  have  at  present  but  one  wish  ;  it  is  that 
I  may  live  to  see  this  lady,  if  she  is  to  be  the  happy  woman.  .  .  . 

But  you  see  Sir  Charles  has  been  indisposed.  No  wonder. 
Visited  by  the  marquis  and  marchioness,  you  see.  Not  a  slight 
illness,  therefore,  you  may  believe.  God  preserve  him,  and 
restore  Lady  Clementina,  and  the  worthy  Jeronymo  ! 

His  kind  remembrance  of  me  !  But,  my  dear,  I  think  the 
doctor  and  you  must  forbear  obliging  me  with  any  more  of  his 
letters.  His  goodness,  his  tenderness,  his  delicacy,  his  strict 
honor,  but  adds —  Yet  can  any  new  instances  add  to  a  character 
so  uniformly  good  ?  But  the  chief  reason  of  my  self-denial,  if 
you  were  to  take  me  at  my  word  as  to  these  communications, 
is  that  his  affecting  descriptions  and  narratives  of  Lady  Clem- 
entina's reveries  (poor,  poor  lady  !)  will  break  my  heart.  Yet 
you  must  send  them  to  your  ever  obliged 

HARRIET  BYRON. 

Poor  Harriet  ! 

Lady  G.  went  down  to  Selby  House,  taking  the  good 
Visit  of  Lady  G.    Dr.    Bartlctt  with  her,   to  be  with  Miss  Byron,   and  if 
possible   raise   her   spirits   with    her   own   lively   ones. 
Hence  comes  this  letter  : 

LADY  G.  TO  LADY  L. 

Se/by  House,  Monday,  July  24th. 

Lord  bless  me,  my  dear,  what  shall  we  do  !  My  brother  in 
all  probability  by  this  time — But  I  cannot  tell  how  to  suppose 
it  !  Ah,  the  poor  Harriet  !  The  three  letters  from  my  brother, 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  141 

which  by  the  permission  of  Dr.  Bartlett  I  enclose,  will  show 
you  that  the  Italian  affair  is  now  at  a  crisis. 

The  three  letters  are  inserted  here,  and  then,  thirty 
pages  on,  Lady  G.  continues  : 

Well,  my  dear  sister  !  and  what  did  you  say  to  the  contents  ? 
I  wish  I  had  been  with  you  and  Lord  L.  at  the  time  you  read  News  from 
them,  that  I  might  have  mingled  my  tears  with  yours  for  the 
sweet  Harriet !  Why  would  my  brother  despatch  these  letters, 
without  staying  till  at  least  he  could  have  informed  us  of  the 
result  of  the  next  day's  meeting  with  Clementina?  What  was 
the  opportunity  that  he  had  to  send  away  those  letters,  which 
he  must  be  assured  would  keep  us  in  strange  suspense  ?  Hang 
the  opportunity  that  so  officiously  offered  !  But  perhaps,  in  the 
tenderness  of  his  nature,  he  thought  that  this  despatch  was  nec- 
essary to  prepare  us  for  what  was  to  follow,  lest,  were  he  to 
acquaint  us  with  the  event  as  decided,  our  emotion  would  be 
too  great  to  be  supported.  We  sisters  to  go  over  to  attend 
LADY  CLEMENTINA  GRANDISON  a  twelvemonth  hence  !  Ah  ! 
the  poor  Harriet !  And  will  she  give  us  leave  ?  But  surely  it 
must  not,  cannot  be  !  And  yet — Hush  !  hush  !  hush,  Charlotte, 
and  proceed  to  facts.  .  .  . 

These  three  letters  she  is  referring  to,  from  Sir 
Charles,  narrate  his  arrival  at  Bologna  and  subsequent  frdvafat63'3 
interviews  with  the  Porretta  family,  and  especially  with  Bol°gna- 
Clementina,  whose  health  was  greatly  improving, 
although  when  he  first  saw  her  "she  was  in  her  mother's 
arms  on  a  couch,  just  come  out  of  a  fit,  but  not  a  strong 
one. ' '  The  whole  family  were  now  prepared  to  surrender 
all  their  prejudices  and  render  their  conditions.  The 
marquis,  the  marchioness,  the  bishop,  the  count,  and 
Father  Marescotti  were  all  present  at  this  interview  at 
the  palace.  They  entered  and  took  their  places. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  marquis,  referring  to  his  lady.  After  Renewed  offers 
some  little  hesitation,  "We  have  no  hope,  sir,"  said  she,  "of  ^|je Porretta 
oor  child's  perfect  restoration,  but  from — "  she  stopt. 

"Our  compliance  with  every  wish  of  her  heart,"  said  the 
bishop. 


142    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"  Ay,  do  you  proceed,"  said  the  marchioness  to  the  prelate. 
Desired  con-  ''It  would  be  to  no  purpose,  chevalier,"  questioned  the 

Charles.0*  Sir  bishop,  "  to  urge  to  you  the  topic  so  near  to  all  our  hearts? " 

I  bowed  assent  to  what  he  said. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  replied  the  bishop. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  it,"  said  the  count. 

This  referred,  of  course,  to  his  own  change  of  religion, 
and  they  all  beset  him  again  to  shake  his  purpose. 

"You  have  the  example  of  great  princes,  chevalier,"  said 
Father  Marescotti,  "  Henry  the  Fourth  of  France,  Augustus  of 
Poland—" 

"True,  father.  But  great  princes  are  not  always,  and  in 
every  action  of  their  lives,  great  men." 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  at  great  length,  but  they  were 
already  fully  decided  to  surrender  the  point  of  Sir 
Charles's  conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  on 
condition  that  he  should  never,  by  himself,  or  his  English 
divines,  attempt  to  pervert  her  ;  should  allow  her  a  con- 

The  conditions  1-  i          •»»  •       i     • 

of  the  marriage,  fessor,  that  confessor  Father  Marescotti,  their  residence 
to  be  in  England  after  the  first  year,  which  his  sisters 
should  pass  with  them  in  Italy.  The  long  conversation 
settled  everything  in  detail,  the  education  of  the 
children,  daughters  allowed  to  be  Roman  Catholics, 
sons  to  adhere  to  the  faith  of  their  father. 

"  All  we  have  now  to  do,"  said  the  marquis,  "is  to  gain  his 
holiness's  permission  [the  pope].  That  has  not  been  refused  in 
such  cases,  where  either  the  sons  or  the  daughters  of  the 
marriage  are  to  be  brought  up  Catholics." 

Such  was  the  news  in  the  three  letters  which  Sir 
Charles  sent  off  to  Dr.  Bartlett.  He  closes  thus  : 

To-morrow  I  am  to  drink  chocolate  with  Lady  Clementina. 
We  shall  be  left  together  perhaps,  or  only  with  her  mother  and 
Camilla. 

A  long  interval  had  to  elapse  before  the  waiting  circle 
heard  further  news  ;  it  came  thus  : 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  143 

SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON  TO  DR.  BARTLETT. 

Bologna^  Saturday  ev'g. 

I  sit  down  now,  my  dear  and  reverend  friend,  to  write  you   surprising 
particulars  which  will  surprise  you.    There  is  not  on  earth  a   news- 
nobler  woman  than  Clementina  !    What  at  last — But  I  find  I 
must  have  a  quieter  heart,  and  fingers,  too,  before  I  can  proceed. 

He  resumes  later  : 

I  think  I  am  a  little  less  agitated  than  I  was.  The  above  few 
lines  shall  go,  for  they  will  express  to  you  the  emotions  of  my 
mind  when  I  attempted  to  write  an  account  of  what  had  then  so 
newly  passed. 

What  had  newly  passed  was  that  Clementina,  in  the 
interview  accorded,  after  showing  great  agitation  at  his 
addresses  and  the  warmth  of  them,  retired  to  a  closet, 
putting  a  paper  in  his  hand  as  she  left  him. 

This  paper  revealed  her  absolute  determination  never  clementina.s 
to  unite  herself  to  a  heretic,  even  if  it  were  the  beloved  resolve. 
of  her  heart.     Here  is  a  part  of  it  (translated  by  Dr. 
Bartlett) : 

"My  tutor,  my  brother,  my  friend!  oh,  most  beloved  and 
best  of  men  !  Seek  me  not  in  marriage  !  I  am  unworthy  of 
thee.  Thy  SOUL  was  ever  most  dear  to  Clementina.  When- 
ever I  meditated  the  gracefulness  of  thy  person  I  restrained  my 
eye,  I  checked  my  fancy  ;  and  how  ?  Why,  by  meditating  on 
the  superior  graces  of  thy  mind.  And  is  not  that  soul  to  be 
saved  ?  thought  I.  Dear,  obstinate,  and  perverse  !  And  shall 
I  bind  my  soul  to  a  soul  allied  to  perdition  ?  That  so  dearly 
loves  that  soul,  as  hardly  to  wish  to  be  separated  from  it  in  its 
future  lot.  Oh,  thou  most  amiable  of  men,  how  can  I  be  sure 
that  were  I  thine,  thou  wouldst  not  draw  me  after  thee  by  love, 
by  sweetness  of  manners,  by  condescending  goodness  ?  I,  who 
once  thought  a  heretic  the  worst  of  beings,  have  been  already 
led,  by  the  amiableness  of  thy  piety,  to  think  more  favorably  of 
all  heretics  for  thy  sake  ! 

"  But  dost  thou  indeed  love  me  ?    Or  is  it  owing  to  thy  gener- 


144    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

osity,  thy  compassion,  thy  nobleness  for  a  creature,  who,  aim- 
ing to  be  great  like  thee,  could  not  sustain  the  effort  ?  It  is  in 
thy  power  to  hold  me  fast  or  to  set  me  free.  I  know  thou  lovest 
Clementina  ;  it  is  her  pride  to  think  that  thou  dost.  But  she  is 
not  worthy  of  thee.  Yet  let  thy  heart  own  that  thou  lovest  her 
soul.  Thou  art  all  magnanimity  ;  thou  canst  sustain  the  effort 
which  she  was  unequal  to.  Make  some  other  woman  happy  ! 
But  I  cannot  bear  that  it  shall  be  an  Italian.  .  .  .  My 
brain  wounded,  my  health  impaired,  can  I  expect  a  long  life  ? 
And  shall  I  not  endeavor  to  make  the  close  of  it  happy  ?  Let 
me  be  great,  my  chevalier  !  " 

Every  effort  to  change  this  determination  was  vain,  and 

Her  determma-  J  >  / 

tion irrevocable,  after  repeated  efforts  and  a  (really)  touching  final  inter- 
view with  Clementina,  Sir  Charles  departed  for  England. 
On  Tuesday,  September  5th,  Lady  G.  writes  : 
Congratulate  us,  my  dearest  Miss  Byron,  on  the  arrival  of  my 
brother.     He  came  last  night.     It  was  late,  and  he  sent  to  us 
this  morning,  and  to  others  of  his  friends.     My  lord  and  I  hur- 
ried away  to  breakfast  with  him.     Ah,  my  dear  !  we  see  too 
plainly  that  he  has  been  very  much  disturbed  in  mind.     He 
looks  more  wan,  and  is  thinner  than  he  was  ;  but  he  is  the  same 
kind  brother,  friend,  and  good  man. 

And  next  from  Selby  House,  Wednesday,  September 
2oth,  comes  this  from  Harriet  : 

MY  DEAREST  LADY  G.  :    Do  you  know  what  is  become  of 

your  brother?    My  grandmamma  Shirley  has  seen  his  ghost, 
Grandmamma  .......  .    ,         . 

Shirley  sees  a      and  talked  with  it  near  an  hour  ;  and  then  it  vanished.     Be  not 

surprised,  my  dear  creature.  I  am  still  in  amaze  at  the  account 
my  grandmamma  gives  us  of  its  appearance,  discourse,  and 
vanishing  !  Nor  was  the  dear  parent  in  a  reverie.  It  happened 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  all  in  broad  day. 

Thus  she  tells  it:  "I  was  sitting,"  said  she,  "in  my  own 
drawing-room,  yesterday,  by  myself,  when  in  came  James,  to 
whom  it  first  appeared,  and  told  me  that  a  gentleman  desired 
to  be  introduced  to  me.  I  was  reading  '  Sherlock  upon  Death  ' 
with  that  cheerfulness  with  which  I  always  meditate  the  sub- 
ject. I  gave  orders  for  his  admittance  ;  and  in  came,  to 
appearance,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  I  ever  saw  in  my  life, 
in  a  riding  dress.  It  was  a  courteous  ghost ;  it  saluted  me,  or 


Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron.  145 

at  least  I  thought  it  did  ;  for  it  answering  to  the  description  that 
you,  my  Harriet,  had  given  me  of  that  amiable  man,  I  was 
surprised.  But  contrary  to  the  manner  of  ghosts,  it  spoke  first. 
'  Venerable  lady, '  it  called  me,  and  said  its  name  was  Grandi- 
son,  in  a  voice  so  like  what  I  had  heard  you  speak  of  his  that 
I  had  no  doubt  but  it  was  Sir  Charles  Grandison  himself,  and 
was  ready  to  fall  down  to  welcome  him." 

The  ghost  left  a  great  packet  of  letters  for  Harriet,    The  ghost 

°  f  '     vanishes. 

refused  refreshments,  desired  in  a  courtly  manner  an 
answer  to  what  it  had  discoursed  upon,  made  a  pro- 
found reverence,  and  vanished. 

So  now,  through  the  length  of  two  more  volumes, 
everything  flows  smoothly,  but  not  rapidly.  Sir  Charles's 
advances  are  made  by  parallels,  beginning  with  the 
excellent  grandparent.  When  he  approaches  the  cita- 
del, it  is  with  caution  and  great  delicacy.  This  delicacy 
arose  from  the  doubt  whether  Miss  Byron  would  be 
willing,  or  should  be  permitted,  to  condone  the  previous 
preoccupation  of  his  heart  with  another  lady.  And 
Harriet  does  not  surrender  without  endless  punctilio  and 
reticence.  He  took  her  hand  and  was  bowing  upon  it 
at  page  65;  on  page  81  the  real  offer  of  marriage  begins,  The  offer  of 

^  .  oo  marriage. 

and  extends  to  page  89,  during  which  space  he  talks 
steadily  but  well.  At  this  first  pause  she  writes  : 

Not  well  before,  I  was  more  than  once  in  apprehension  of 
fainting,  as  he  talked,  agreeable  as  was  his  talk,  and  engaging 
as  was  liis  manner.  My  grandmamma  and  aunt  saw  my  com- 
plexion change  (they  had  been  silent  throughout)  at  his  par- 
ticular address  to  me  in  the  last  part  of  his  speech.  I  held  my 
handkerchief  now  to  my  eyes,  and  now  as  a  cover  to  myself- 
felt  varying  cheek. 

In  the  most  respectful  and  graceful  manner  he  pressed  a 
hand  of  each  with  his  lips  ;  mine  twice.  I  could  not  speak. 
My  grandmamma  and  aunt,  delighted,  yet  tears  standing  in 
their  eyes,  looked  upon  each  other,  and  upon  me  ;  each  as  ex- 
pecting the  other  to  speak.  But  he  was  ready  to  continue  : 
"I  have,  perhaps,"  said  he  with  some  emotion,  ''taken  up  too 


146    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Ceniury. 

much  of  Miss  Byron's  attention  in  this  my  first  personal  decla- 
ration. I  will  now  return  to  the  company.  We  will  for  this 
evening  postpone  the  important  subject." 

At  last,  later  on,  the  "man  of  men  "  gave  Miss  Byron 

The  offer  .  ...  . 

accepted.  an  opportunity  to  accept  him.      He  then,  on  one  knee, 

taking  her  passive  hand  between  both  his,  and  kissing  it 
once,  twice,  thrice — "Repeat,  dear  and  ever  dear  Miss 
Byron,"  and  so  on,  and  she  took  out  her  handkerchief. 
Endless  delays,  before  she  could  be  persuade  to  fix 
the  day. 

"Why  hesitates  my  love  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  six  weeks — " 

"Six  ages,  my  dearest,  dearest  creature  !  Six  weeks  !  For 
heaven's  sake,  madam — " 

He  looked,  he  spoke  impatience. 

On  his  leaving  me  to  return  to  company  below  he  presented 
me  with  four  little  boxes.  "Accept,  my  beloved  Miss  Byron," 
said  he,  "  of  these  trifles." 

"  Very  handsome  jewels  "  they  proved  to  be. 
The  rest  of  the  sixth  volume  is  occupied  with  accounts 
wed<fing!°l         infinitely  detailed  of  the  glorious  wedding,  all  in  letters 
to  Lady  G. ,  who  was  unavoidably  absent.     The  seventh 
volume  describes  the  happiness  of  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Grandison,  and  a  visit  they  received  from  Clementina 
and  all  the  Porrettas.      But  the  book  really  ends  with 
the  wedding. 

Joy,  joy,  joy,  was  wished  the  happy  pair  from  every  mouth. 
"See,  my  dear  young  ladies,"  said  the  happy  and  instructing 
Mrs.  Shirley,  "the  reward  of  duty,  virtue,  and  obedience." 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  and  Correspondence  of  Samuel  Richardson.  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld. 

Mrs.  Barbauld's  Life  in  "English  Poetesses,"  by  Eric 
S.  Robertson,  M.  A. 

Richardson's  Complete  Works  ''any  edition). 


BOOK  V. 
FIELDING. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

NEXT  to  Richardson  among  the  novelists  of  this 
period,  the  second  place  is  given  to  Henry  Fielding, 
called  by  Byron  "  the  prose  Homer  of  human  nature."  "The prose 

T      1  •  11  11-1-1-  Homer  of 

In  his  personal  character  as  well  as  in  his  literary  career,    human  nature. 

in  everything,  indeed,  but  the  power  of  his  genius,  he 

was   the   exact   opposite   of   Richardson,    though   very 

nearly  his  contemporary.       He  lived  from  1707  to  1754, 

while   Richardson,   who  was   born  eight   years  earlier, 

died  some  years  later. 

He  was  of  noble  birth,  being  a  descendant  of  the 
illustrious  house  of  Denbigh  and  son  of  General  Field- 
ing'. He  was  the  second  cousin  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  A  cousin  of 

J  J  '        Lady  Mary. 

descended  in  the  same  degree  from  George,  Earl  of 
Desmond.  He  dedicated  to  her  his  first  comedy  of 
" Love  in  Several  Masks"  in  1727.  She  had  a  great 
regard  for  him  ;  pitied  his  misfortunes,  excused  his 
failings,  and  warmly  admired  his  best  writings,  above 
all  "Tom  Jones/'  in  her  own  copy  of  which  she  wrote 
Ne  plus  ultra.  Nevertheless  she  frankly  said  she  was 
"sorry  he  did  not  himself  perceive  that  he  had  made 
Tom  Jones  a  scoundrel." 

Early  in  life  Fielding  succeeded  to  a  ruined  inheri- 
tance, and  betook  himself  to  the  stage,  becoming  a 
dramatic  author  and  lively  writer  in  the  Covent  Garden 
Journal.  He  produced  a  number  of  pieces,  now 

147 


148    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

entirely  forgotten,  which  show  that  his  talent  was  in  no 
Henry  Field-      way   adapted   to   the   theater.       His    career   for    some 

ing  s  early  *  ~ 

struggle  with      years  was  a  continuous  struggle  with  fortune  and  his 

fortune.  * 

own  extravagance.  He  married  an  excellent  lady, 
whose  picture  he  drew  in  his  ' '  Amelia  " ;  he  loved  her 
passionately  and  she  returned  his  affection,  but  they  led 
no  happy  life,  for  they  were  always  poor  and  seldom  in 
a  state  of  quiet  and  safety  on  account  of  his  debts.  If 
he  ever  possessed  any  money,  nothing  could  keep  him 
from  squandering  it  at  once  and  nothing  induced  him  to 
think  of  to-morrow.  Sometimes  they  were  living  in 
decent  lodgings  with  tolerable  comfort  ;  sometimes  in  a 
wretched  garret  without  the  necessaries  of  life,  not  to 
speak  of  sponging-houses  and  hiding-places  where  he 
was  occasionally  lying  perdu.  His  elastic  gaiety  of 
spirits  carried  him  through  it  all  ;  but  meanwhile  care 
and  anxiety  were  preying  upon  her  more  delicate  organ- 
ization, and  undermining  her  health.  She  gradually 
declined,  caught  a  fever,  and  died  in  his  arms.  Yet 
after  the  death  of  this  charming  woman  he  married  her 
maid,  a  person  of  but  few  apparent  attractions,  but  an 
excellent  creature,  devoted  to  her  mistress  and  almost 
broken-hearted  for  her  loss.  Her  conduct  as  his  wife 
justified  the  act. 

In  1742,  when  he  was  thirty-five,  he  first  struck  the 
"Joseph  vein    of   humorous   writing  in  which  he   is   considered 

Andrews."  .  -       ,  ,          . 

never  to  have  had  a  rival,  when  he  produced  his  first 
novel,  "Joseph  Andrews,"  which  was  in  some  sense 
intended  as  a  parody  or  caricature,  ridiculing  the  timid 
morality  of  Richardson's  "Pamela,"  its  shopkeeper 
tone,  and  generally  "good  boy"  style;  "Pamela" 
was  then  in  full  blaze  of  success.  Fielding's  novel  at 
once  received  the  honor  due  to  a  great,  original  creation, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  produced  the  remarkable  sa- 


Fielding.  149 

tirical  tale,  "Jonathan  Wild  the  Great."  In  1749  he  was 
appointed  to  the  laborious,  and  then  far  from  respect- 
able, post  of  a  London  police  magistrate,  and  while  thus 
employed  composed  "the  finest,  completest,  and  pro- 
foundest  of  his  works,  the  incomparable  '  Tom  Jones.'  ' 
This  was  followed  after  a  brief  interval  by  ' '  Amelia. ' ' 
Ruined  in  health  by  hard  work  and  dissipation,  he 
sailed  for  Lisbon  in  1754.  After  a  short  time  he  died  in 
that  city  and  was  buried  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  there. 
The  qualities  which  distinguish  Fielding's  genius  are 
accurate  observation  of  character  and  an  extraordinary  Fielding's 

genius. 

power  of  deducing  the  actions  and  expressions  of  his 
personages  from  the  elements  of  their  nature,  a  constant 
sympathy  with  the  vigorous  unrestrained  characters,  in 
all  ranks  of  society,  but  especially  in  the  lowest,  which 
he  loved  to  delineate.  In  the  construction  of  his  plots 
he  is  masterly.  That  of  ' '  Tom  Jones ' '  is  perhaps 
the  finest  example  in  fiction  of  a  series,  what  might  be 
called  an  avalanche,  of  events,  probable  yet  surprising, 
each  of  which  helps  the  ultimate  catastrophe.  He 
possessed  an  almost  childish  delight  in  fun  and  extrava- 
gantly ludicrous  incident,  combined  with  a  philosophic 
closeness  of  analysis  of  character  and  an  impressive 
tone  of  moral  reflection,  the  latter  often  masked  under  a 
pleasant  air  of  satire  and  irony.  His  novels  breathe 
a  sort  of  fresh  open-air  atmosphere,  in  strong  contrast 
to  the  artificial  style  employed  by  Richardson. 

In  "  Tom  Jones"  it  is  difficult  to  know  what  most  to 

-    ,  ,  ,       ,  ,          .  Admirable 

admire — the  artful  conduct  or  the  plot,  the  immense  qualities  of 
variety,  wit,  and  humor  of  the  personages,  the  gaiety 
of  the  incidents,  or  the  acute  remarks  which  the  author 
interspersed  amongst  the  matter  of  the  narration.  The 
trouble  is  that,  in  spite  of  all  that  is  here  said,  which  I 
readily  adduce  as  the  best  verdict  of  present  criticism, 


1 50    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Fielding  is  so  indecent  in  plot  and  language  that  it  is 
defect0"5  difficult  to  give  any  just  idea  of  either  without  shocking 

ears  polite.  To  give  the  plot  and  omit  the  chief  details, 
to  quote  passages  and  draw  the  pen  through  half  of 
every  sentence,  leaves  but  a  mutilated  example  of  his 
work.  I  shall  try,  however,  to  give  some  brilliant 
passages,  even  if  it  is  necessary  to  leave  their  connection 
unexplained.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  pass  over  the 
breezy,  delightful  narrative  of  Fielding,  and  his  lightly- 
touched  pictures  of  the  life  of  his  time,  vivid  as  they 
are  and  broadly  drawn. 

The  introduction  to  the  work,  or  bill  of  fare  to  the  feast. 

An  author  ought  to  consider  himself,  not  as  a  gentleman  who- 
gives  a  private  or  eleemosynary  treat,  but  rather  as  one  who 
keeps  a  public  ordinary,  at  which  all  persons  are  welcome  for 
their  money.  In  the  former  case,  it  is  well  known  that  the  en- 
tertainer provides  what  fare  he  pleases  :  and  though  this  should 
An  author  r 

a  host.  be  very  indifferent,  and  utterly  disagreeable  to  the  taste  of  his 

company,  they  must  not  find  any  fault ;  nay,  on  the  contrary, 
good  breeding  forces  them  outwardly  to  approve  and  to  com- 
mend whatever  is  set  before  them.  Now  the  contrary  of  this 
happens  to  the  master  of  an  ordinary.  Men  who  pay  for  what 
they  eat  will  insist  on  gratifying  their  palates,  however  nice  and 
even  whimsical  these  may  prove  ;  and  if  everything  is  not 
agreeable  to  their  taste,  will  challenge  a  right  to  censure,  to 
abuse,  and  to  d — n  their  dinner  without  control. 

To  prevent,  therefore,  giving  offense  to  their  customers  by 
any  such  disappointment,  it  hath  been  usual  with  the  honest 
and  well-meaning  host  to  provide  a  bill  of  fare  which  all  per- 
sons may  peruse  at  their  first  entrance  into  the  house,  and 
having  thence  acquainted  themselves  with  the  entertainment 
which  they  may  expect,  may  either  stay  and  regale  with  what  is 
provided  for  them,  or  may  depart  to  some  ordinary  better 
accommodated  to  their  taste. 

As  we  do  not  disdain  to  borrow  wit  or  wisdom  from  any  man 
who  is  capable  of  lending  us  either,  we  have  condescended  to 
take  a  hint  from  these  honest  victuallers,  and  shall  prefix  not 


Fielding.  151 

only  a  general  bill  of  fare  to  our  whole  entertainment,  but  shall 
likewise  give  the  reader  particular  bills  to  every  course  which 
is  to  be  served  up  in  this  and  the  ensuing  volumes. 

The  provision,  then,  which  we  have  here  made  is  no  other 
than  Human  Nature.  Nor  do  I  fear  that  my  sensible  reader, 
though  most  luxurious  in  his  taste,  will  start,  cavil,  or  be 
offended,  because  I  have  named  but  one  article.  The  tortoise 
— as  the  alderman  of  Bristol,  well  learned  in  eating,  knows  by 
much  experience — besides  the  delicious  calibash  and  calepee, 
contains  many  different  kinds  of  food,  nor  can  the  learned 
reader  be  ignorant,  that  in  human  nature,  though  here  collected 
under  one  general  name,  is  such  prodigious  variety,  that  a  cook 
will  have  sooner  gone  through  all  the  several  species  of  animal 
and  vegetable  food  in  the  world,  than  an  author  will  be  able  to 
exhaust  so  extensive  a  subject. 

An  objection  may  perhaps  be  apprehended  from  the  more 
•delicate,  that  this  dish  is  too  common  and  vulgar ;  for  what  else 
is  the  subject  of  all  the  romances,  novels,  plays,  and  poems 
with  which  the  stalls  abound  ?  Many  exquisite  viands  might  be 
rejected  by  the  epicure,  if  it  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  his  con- 
temning of  them  as  common  and  vulgar,  that  something  was  to 
be  found  in  the  most  paltry  alleys  under  the  same  name.  In 
reality,  true  nature  is  as  difficult  to  be  met  with  in  authors  as  the 
Bayonne  hare  or  Bologna  sausage  is  to  be  found  in  the  shops. 

But  the  whole,  to  continue  the  same  metaphor,  consists  in  the 
•cookery  of  the  author  ;  for,  as  Mr.  Pope  tells  us, 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  drest ; 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  exprest. 

The  same  animal  which  hath  the  honor  to  have  some  part  of 
his  flesh  eaten  at  the  table  of  a  duke  may  perhaps  be  degraded 
in  another  part,  and  some  of  his  limbs  gibbeted,  as  it  were,  in 
the  vilest  stall  in  town.  Where,  then,  lies  the  difference 
between  the  food  of  the  nobleman  and  the  porter,  if  both  are 
at  dinner  on  the  same  ox  or  calf,  but  in  the  seasoning,  the 
dressing,  the  garnishing,  and  the  setting  forth  ?  Hence  the  one 
provokes  and  incites  the  most  languid  appetite,  and  the  other 
turns  and  palls  that  which  is  the  sharpest  and  keenest. 

In  like  manner,  the  excellence  of  the  mental  entertainment    The  author's 
consists  less  in  the  subject  than  in  the  author's  skill  in  well   paring  it. 
•dressing  it  up.     How  pleased,  therefore,  will  the  reader  be  to 


152    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

find  that  we  have,  in  the  following  work,  adhered  closely  to- 
one  of  the  highest  principles  of  the  best  cook  which  the  present 
age,  or  perhaps  that  of  Heliogabalus,  hath  produced.  This 
great  man,  as  is  well  known  to  all  polite  lovers  of  eating, 
begins  at  first  by  setting  plain  things  before  his  hungry  guests, 
rising  afterward  by  degrees  as  their  stomachs  may  be  supposed 
to  decrease,  to  the  very  quintessence  of  sauce  and  spices.  In 
like  manner,  we  shall  represent  human  nature  at  first  to  the 
keen  appetite  of  our  reader,  in  that  more  plain  and  simple 
manner  in  which  it  is  found  in  the  country,  and  shall  hereafter 
hash  and  ragoo  it  with  all  the  high  French  and  Italian  season- 
ing of  affectation  and  vice  which  courts  and  cities  afford.  By 
these  means,  we  doubt  not  but  our  reader  may  be  rendered 
desirous  to  read  on  forever,  as  the  great  person  just  above- 
mentioned  is  supposed  to  have  made  some  persons  eat. 

Having  premised  thus  much,  we  will  now  detain  those  who 
like  our  bill  of  fare  no  longer  from  their  diet,  and  shall  proceed 
directly  to  serve  up  the  first  course  of  our  history  for  their 
entertainment. 

Tom  Tones,  the  foundling-,  was  adopted  in  the  kindli- 

InfancyofTom  J 

J°nes-  est  manner  by  the  excellent  Mr.  Allworthy,  with  a  good 

heart  and  no  family,  who  found  the  child  in  his  bed  one 
evening  on  returning  from  a  long  absence  and  decided 
to  adopt  the  boy  as  his  own. 

The  readers  neck  brought  into  danger  by  a  description;  his 
escape ;  and  the  great  condescension  of  Miss  Bridget  All- 
worthy. 

The  Gothic  style  of  building  could  produce  nothing  nobler 
Description  of     than  Mr.  Allworthy's  house.     There  was  an  air  of  grandeur  in 

Mr.  Allworthy's    •.  ,,      .  ,  .  ,  ,     .      ,     .     .       .  .          ,   , 

estate.  lt;  that  struck  you  with  a\ve,  and  rivaled  the  beauties  of  the  best 

Grecian  architecture  ;  and  it  was  as  commodious  within  as 
venerable  without. 

It  stood  on  the  southeast  side  of  a  hill,  but  nearer  the  bottom 
than  the  top  of  it,  so  as  to  be  sheltered  from  the  northeast  by  a 
grove  of  old  oaks  which  arose  above  it  in  a  gradual  ascent  of 
near  half  a  mile,  and  yet  high  enough  to  enjoy  a  most  charming 
prospect  of  the  valley  beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  the  grove  was  a  fine  lawn,  sloping  down 


Fielding.  153 

toward  the  house,  near  the  summit  of  which  rose  a  plentiful 
spring,  gushing  out  of  a  rock  covered  with  firs,  and  forming  a 
constant  cascade  of  about  thirty  feet,  not  carried  down  a  regular 
flight  of  steps,  but  tumbling  in  a  natural  fall  over  the  broken 
and  mossy  stones  till  it  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  rock,  then  scenery" 
running  off  in  a  pebbly  channel,  that  with  many  lesser  falls 
winded  along,  till  it  fell  into  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  about 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  house  on  the  south  side,  and 
which  was  seen  from  every  room  in  the  front.  Out  of  this  lake, 
which  filled  the  center  of  a  beautiful  plain,  embellished  with 
groups  of  beeches  and  elms,  and  fed  with  sheep,  issued  a  river, 
that  for  several  miles  was  seen  to  meander  through  an  amazing 
variety  of  meadows  and  woods  till  it  emptied  itself  into  the  sea, 
with  a  large  arm  of  which,  and  an  island  beyond  it,  the  prospect 
was  closed. 

On  the  right  of  this  valley  opened  another  of  less  extent, 
adorned  with  several  villages,  and  terminated  by  one  of  the 
towers  of  an  old  ruined  abbey,  grown  over  with  ivy,  and  part  of 
the  front,  which  remained  still  entire. 

The  left-hand  scene  presented  the  view  of  a  very  fine  park, 
composed  of  very  unequal  ground,  and  agreeably  varied  with 
all  the  diversity  that  hills,  lawns,  wood,  and  water,  laid  out  with 
admirable  taste,  but  owing  less  to  art  than  to  nature,  could  give. 
Beyond  this,  the  country  gradually  rose  into  a  ridge  of  wild 
mountains,  the  tops  of  which  were  above  the  clouds.  .  .  . 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  May,  and  the  morning  was  remark- 
ably serene,  when  Mr.  Allworthy  walked  forth  on  the  terrace,  Mr.  Allworthy 

walks  forth, 
where  the  dawn  opened  every  minute  that  lovely  prospect  we 

have  before  described  to  his  eye  ;  and  now  having  sent  forth 
streams  of  light,  which  ascended  the  blue  firmament  before  him, 
as  harbingers  preceding  his  pomp,  in  the  full  blaze  of  his 
majesty  rose  the  sun,  than  which  one  object  alone  in  this  lower 
creation  could  be  more  glorious,  and  that  Mr.  Allworthy  him- 
self presented — a  human  being  replete  with  benevolence,  medi- 
tating in  what  manner  he  might  render  himself  most  acceptable 
to  his  Creator,  by  doing  most  good  to  his  creatures. 

Reader,  take  care.  I  have  unadvisedly  led  thee  to  the  top  of 
as  high  a  hill  as  Mr.  Allworthy's,  and  how  to  get  thee  down 
without  breaking  thy  neck,  I  do  not  well  know.  However,  let 
us  e'en  venture  to  slide  down  together  ;  for  Miss  Bridget  rings 
her  bell,  and  Mr.  Allworthy  is  summoned  to  breakfast,  where  I 


154    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

must  attend,  and,  if  you  please,  shall  be  glad  of  your  company. 
The  usual  compliments  having  passed  between  Mr.  Allworthy 
and  Miss  Bridget,  and  the  tea  being  poured  out,  he  told  his 
sister  he  had  a  present  for  her,  for  which  she  thanked  him — 
imagining,  I  suppose,  it  had  been  a  gown,  or  some  ornament 
for  her  person.  Indeed,  he  very  often  made  her  such  presents  ; 
and  she,  in  complacence  to  him,  spent  much  time  in  adorning 
herself.  I  say  in  complacence  to  him,  because  she  always 
expressed  the  greatest  contempt  for  dress,  and  for  those  ladies 
who  made  it  their  study. 

Miss  Bridget  Allworthy  was  the  sister  of  the  master  of 
Miss  Allworthy  the  house,  who  lived  with  him.  She  was  not  altogether 
pleased  when  she  discovered  the  nature  of  the  present 
referred  to  ;  however,  having  looked  at  the  child  ear- 
nestly as  it  lay  asleep  she  could  not  forbear  giving  it  a 
hearty  kiss,  at  the  same  time  declaring  herself  wonder- 
fully pleased  with  it. 

About  this  time  Miss  Allworthy  was  married  herself, 
and  had  a  son,  who  was  brought  up  in  Mr.  All- 
worthy's  house  along  with  "Tom."  His  name  was 
Master  Blifil  and  they  were  always  quarreling. 

The  hero  of  this  great  history  appears  with  very  bad  omens.  A 
little  tale  of  so  low  a  kind  that  some  may  think  it  not  worth 
their  notice.  A  word  or  two  concerning  a  squire,  and  more 
relating  to  a  gamekeeper  and  a  schoolmaster. 

As  we  determined,  when  we  first  sat  down  to  write  this  his- 
tory, to  flatter  no  man,  but  to  guide  our  pen  throughout  by  the 
directions  of  truth,  we  are  obliged  to  bring  our  hero  on  the 
stage  in  a  much  more  disadvantageous  manner  than  we  could 
wish  ;  and  to  declare  honestly,  even  at  his  first  appearance,  that 
it  was  the  universal  opinion  of  all  Mr.  Allworthy's  family  that 
he  was  certainly  born  to  be  hanged. 

Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  was  too  much  reason  for  this 

His  early  conjecture  ;  the  lad  having  from  his  earliest  years  discovered  a 

propensities.        propensity  to  many  vices,  and  especially  to  one  which  hath  as 

direct  a  tendency  as  any  other  to  that  fate  which  we  have  just 

now  observed  to  have  been  prophetically  denounced  against 


Fielding.  155 

him  ;  he  had  been  already  convicted  of  three  robberies,  viz. :  of 
robbing  an  orchard,  of  stealing  a  duck  out  of  a  farmer's  yard, 
and  of  picking  Master  Blifil's  pocket  of  a  ball. 

The  vices  of  this  young  man  were,  moreover,  heightened  by 
*u  j-  A  i-  if-  u-  i  *u  \  u  j  Character  of 

the  disadvantageous  light  in  which  they  appeared  when  opposed    Master  Blifil. 

to  the  virtues  of  Master  Blifil,  his  companion  ;  a  youth  of  so 
different  a  cast  from  little  Jones  that  not  only  the  family  but  all 
the  neighborhood  resounded  his  praises.  He  was,  indeed,  a 
lad  of  remarkable  disposition  ;  sober,  discreet,  and  pious  beyond 
his  age  ;  qualities  which  gained  him  the  love  of  every  one  who 
knew  him  ;  while  Tom  Jones  was  universally  disliked  ;  and 
many  expressed  their  wonder  that  Mr.  Allworthy  would  suffer 
such  a  lad  to  -be  educated  with  his  nephew,  lest  the  morals  of 
the  latter  should  be  corrupted  by  his  example. 

An  incident  which  happened  about  this  time  will  set  the  char- 
acters of  these  two  lads  more  fairly  before  the  discerning  reader 
than  is  in  the  power  of  the  longest  dissertation. 

Tom  Jones,  who,  bad  as  he  is,  must  serve  for  the  hero  of  this 
history,  had  only  one  friend  among  all  the  servants  of  the  family. 
This  friend  was  the  gamekeeper,  a  fellow  of  a  loose  kind  of 
disposition  and  who  was  thought  not  to  entertain  much  stricter 
notions  concerning  the  difference  of  meum  and  tuum  than  the 
young  gentleman  himself,  and  hence  this  friendship  gave 
occasion  to  many  sarcastical  remarks  among  the  domestics, 
most  of  which  were  either  proverbs  before,  or  at  least  had  be- 
come so  now  :  and  indeed  the  wit  of  them  all  may  be  com- 
prised in  that  short  Latin  proverb,  Noscitur  a  socio  ;  which,  I 
think,  is  thus  expressed  in  English  :  "You  may  know  him  by 
the  company  he  keeps." 

Contiguous  to  Mr.  Allworthy's  estate  was  the  manor  of  one 
of  these  gentlemen  who  are  called  preservers  of  the  game,  the  game. 
This  species  of  men,  from  the  great  severity  with  which  they 
revenge  the  death  of  a  hare  or  partridge,  might  be  thought  to 
cultivate  the  same  superstitions  with  the  Bannians  in  India, 
many  of  whom  we  are  told  dedicate  their  whole  lives  to  the 
preservation  and  protection  of  certain  animals  ;  was  it  not  that 
our  English  Bannians  while  they  preserve  them  from  other 
enemies  will  most  unmercifully  slaughter  whole  horse-loads 
themselves ;  so  that  they  stand  clearly  acquitted  of  any  such 
heathenish  superstition. 

Now,  as  Horace  tells  us  that  there  are  a  set  of  human  beings 


156    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Tom  goes  out 
with  the  game- 
keeper. 


Discovered 
with  a 
partridge. 


Fruges  consumere  nati, 

"Born  to  consume  the  fruits  of  the  earth";  so  I  make  no 
manner  of  doubt  but  that  there  are  others 

Feras  consumere  nati, 

"  Born  to  consume  the  beasts  of  the  field  "  ;  or,  as  it  is  com- 
monly called,  the  game  ;  and  none,  I  believe,  will  deny  but 
that  those  squires  fulfil  this  end  of  their  creation. 

Little  Jones  went  one  day  a  shooting  with  the  gamekeeper  ; 
when  happening  to  spring  a  covey  of  partridges  near  the  border 
of  that  manor  over  which  fortune,  to  fulfil  the  wise  purposes  of 
nature,  had  planted  one  of  the  game  consumers,  the  birds  flew 
into  it,  and  were  marked  (as  it  is  called)  by  the  two  sportsmen, 
in  some  furze  bushes,  about  two  or  three  hundred  paces 
beyond  Mr.  Allworthy's  dominions. 

Mr.  Allworthy  had  given  the  fellow  strict  orders,  on  pain  of 
forfeiting  his  place,  never  to  trespass  on  any  of  his  neighbors  ; 
no  more  on  those  who  were  less  rigid  in  this  matter  than  on 
the  lord  of  this  manor.  With  regard  to  others,  indeed,  these 
orders  had  not  been  always  very  scrupulously  kept ;  but  as  the 
disposition  of  the  gentleman  with  whom  the  partridges  had 
taken  sanctuary  was  well  known,  the  gamekeeper  had  never 
yet  attempted  to  invade  his  territories.  Nor  had  he  done  it 
now,  had  not  the  younger  sportsman,  who  was  excessively 
eager  to  pursue  the  flying  game,  over-persuaded  him  ;  but 
Jones  being  very  importunate,  the  other,  who  was  himself  keen 
enough  after  the  sport,  yielded  to  his  persuasions,  entered  the 
manor,  and  shot  one  of  the  partridges. 

The  gentleman  himself  was  at  that  time  on  horseback,  at  a 
little  distance  from  them  ;  and  hearing  the  gun  go  off,  he 
immediately  made  toward  the  place,  and  discovered  poor 
Tom  ;  for  the  gamekeeper  had  leapt  into  the  thickest  part  of 
the  furze-brake,  where  he  had  happily  concealed  himself. 

The  gentleman  having  searched  the  lad,  and  found  the 
partridge  upon  him,  denounced  great  vengeance,  swearing  he 
would  acquaint  Mr.  Allworthy.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word  ; 
for  he  rode  immediately  to  his  house,  and  complained  of  the 
trespass  on  his  manor  in  as  high  terms  and  as  bitter  language 
as  if  his  house  had  been  broken  open  and  the  most  valuable 
furniture  stole  out  of  it.  He  added  that  some  other  person 
was  in  his  company,  though  he  could  not  discover  him  ;  for 


Fielding.  157 

that  two  guns  had  been  discharged  almost  in  the  same  instant. 
And,  says  he,  "We  have  found  only  this  partridge,  but  the 
Lord  knows  what  mischief  they  have  done." 

At  his  return  home  Tom  was  presently  convened  before  Mr. 
Allworthy.  He  owned  the  fact,  and  alleged  no  other  excuse 
but  what  was  really  true,  viz.,  that  the  covey  was  originally 
sprung  in  Mr.  Allworthy's  own  manor. 

Tom  was  then  interrogated  who  was  with  him,  which  Mr. 
Allworthy  declared  he  was  resolved  to  know,  acquainting  the   betray  his 
culprit  with  the  circumstance  of  the  two  guns,  which  had  been   compani°n- 
deposed  by  the  squire  and  both  his  servants  ;  but  Tom  stoutly 
persisted  in  asserting  that  he  was  alone ;  yet,  to  say  the  truth, 
he  hesitated  a  little  at  first,  which  would  have  confirmed  Mr. 
Allworthy's  belief  had  what  the  squire  and  his  servants  said 
wanted  any  further  confirmation. 

The  gamekeeper,  being  a  suspected  person,  was  now  sent 
for,  and  the  question  put  to  him  ;  but  he,  relying  on  the  prom- 
ise which  Tom  had  made  him,  to  take  all  upon  himself,  very 
resolutely  denied  being  in  company  with  the  young  gentleman, 
or  indeed  having  seen  him  the  whole  afternoon. 

Mr.  Allworthy  then  turned  toward  Tom,  with  more  than 
usual  anger  in  his  countenance,  and  advised  him  to  confess  who 
was  with  him  ;  repeating  that  he  was  resolved  to  know.  The 
lad,  however,  still  maintained  his  resolution,  and  was  dismissed 
with  much  wrath  by  Mr.  Allworthy,  who  told  him  he  should 
have  to  the  next  morning  to  consider  of  it,  when  he  should  be 
questioned  by  another  person  and  in  another  manner. 

Poor  Jones  spent  a  very  melancholy  night ;  and  the  more  so 
as  he  was  without  his  usual  companion  ;  for  Master  Blifil  was 
gone  abroad  on  a  visit  with  his  mother.  Fear  of  the  punish- 
ment he  was  to  suffer  was  on  this  occasion  his  least  evil ;  his 
chief  anxiety  being  lest  his  constancy  should  fail  him,  and  he 
should  be  brought  to  betray  the  gamekeeper,  whose  ruin  he 
knew  must  now  be  the  consequence. 

Nor  did  the  gamekeeper  pass  the  time  much  better.  He  had 
the  same  apprehensions  with  the  youth  for  whose  humor  he 
had  likewise  a  much  tenderer  regard  than  for  his  skin. 

In    the   morning    when    Tom    attended    the    reverend  Mr. 

Thwackum,  the  person  to  whom  Mr.  Allworthy  had  committed 

-    ,  .  His  punish- 

the  instruction  of  the  two  boys,  he  had  the  same  questions  put    ment. 

to  him  by  that  gentleman  which  he  had  been  asked  the  evening 


158    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

before,  to  which  he  returned  the  same  answer.  The  conse- 
quence was  a  severe  whipping,  which  he  bore  with  great  reso- 
lution, rather  than  betray  his  friend  or  break  the  promise  he 
had  made. 

The  gamekeeper  was  now  relieved  from  his  anxiety,  and  Mr. 
Allworthy  himself  began  to  be  concerned  at  Tom's  sufferings  ; 
now  as  cruelty  and  injustice  were  two  ideas  of  which  Mr. 
Allworthy  could  by  no  means  support  the  consciousness  a 
single  moment  he  sent  for  Tom  and  said:  "lam  convinced, 
my  dear  child,  that  my  suspicions  have  wronged  you,  I  am 
kindness?1  yS  sorry  you  have  been  so  severely  punished  on  this  account." 
And  at  last  gave  him  a  little  horse  to  make  him  amends. 

Tom's  guilt  now  flew  in  his  face  more  than  any  severity  could 
make  it.  The  tears  burst  from  his  eyes,  and  he  fell  on  his 
knees,  crying,  "Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  good  to  me.  Indeed  you 
are.  Indeed,  I  don't  deserve  it."  And  at  that  very  instant, 
from  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  had  almost  betrayed  the  secret ; 
but  the  good  genius  of  the  gamekeeper  suggested  to  him  what 
might  be  the  consequence  to  the  poor  fellow,  and  this  consider- 
ation sealed  his  lips. 

Thwackum  did  all  he  could  to  persuade  Allworthy  from 
showing  any  compassion  or  kindness  to  the  boy,  saying,  "  He 
had  persisted  in  an  untruth";  and  gave  some  hints  that  a 
second  whipping  might  probably  bring  the  matter  to  light. 

But  Mr.  Allworthy  absolutely  refused  to  consent  to  the 
experiment.  He  said  the  boy  had  suffered  enough  already  for 
concealing  the  truth,  even  if  he  was  guilty,  seeing  that  he  could 
have  no  motive  but  a  mistaken  point  of  honor  for  so  doing. 

"Honor!"  cried  Thwackum  with  some  wrath,  "mere  stub- 
bornness and  obstinacy  !  Can  honor  teach  any  one  to  tell  a  lie, 
or  can  any  honor  exist  independent  of  religion  ? " 

A  childish  incident,  in  which,  however,  is  seen  a  good-natured 

disposition  in  Tom  Jones. 

The  reader  may  remember  that  Mr.  Allworthy  gave  Tom 
Jones  a  little  horse,  as  a  kind  of  smart-money  for  the  punish- 
ment which  he  imagined  he  had  suffered  innocently. 

This  horse  Tom  kept  above  half  a  year,  and  then  rode  him 
The  horse  sold,  to  a  neighboring  fair  and  sold  him.  On  his  return,  being  ques- 
tioned by  Thwackum  what  he  had  done  with  the  money  for 
which  the  horse  was  sold,  he  franklv  declared  he  would  not  tell 


Fielding.  1 59 

him.  Mr.  Allworthy,  entering  the  room,  took  him  with  him 
into  another  apartment ;  where,  being  himself  only  present 
with  Tom,  he  put  the  same  question  to  him  which  Thwackum 
had  before  asked  him. 

Tom  answered,  he  could  in  duty  refuse  him  nothing ;  but  as 
for  that  tyrannical  rascal,  he  would  never  make  him  any  other 
answer  than  with  a  cudgel,  with  which  he  hoped  soon  to  be 
able  to  pay  him  for  all  his  barbarities. 

Mr.  Allworthy  very  severely  reprimanded  the  lad  for  his 
indecent  and  disrespectful  expressions  concerning  his  master  ;  To^dr^fri" 
but  much  more  for  his  avowing  an  intention  of  revenge.  He 
threatened  him  with  the  entire  loss  of  his  favor  if  he  ever  heard 
such  another  word  from  his  mouth  ;  for,  he  said,  he  would 
never  support  or  befriend  a  reprobate.  By  these  and  the  like 
declarations,  he  extorted  some  compunction  from  Tom,  in 
which  that  youth  was  not  over-sincere  ;  for  he  really  meditated 
some  return  for  all  the  smarting  favors  he  had  received  at  the 
hands  of  the  pedagogue.  He  was,  however,  brought  by  Mr. 
Allworthy  to  express  a  concern  for  his  resentment  against 
Thwackum ;  and  then  the  good  man,  after  some  wholesome 
admonition,  permitted  him  to  proceed,  which  he  did  as  follows  : 

"Indeed,  my  dear  sir,  I  love  and  honor  you  more  than  all 
the  world  :  I  know  the  great  obligations  I  have  to  you,  and  His  defense. 
should  detest  myself  if  I  thought  my  heart  was  capable  of 
ingratitude.  Could  the  little  horse  you  gave  me  speak,  I  am 
sure  he  could  tell  you  how  fond  I  was  of  your  present ;  for  I 
had  more  pleasure  in  feeding  him  than  in  riding  him.  Indeed, 
sir,  it  went  to  my  heart  to  part  with  him  ;  nor  would  I  have  sold 
him  upon  any  other  account  in  the  world  than  what  I  did.  You 
3'ourself,  sir,  I  am  convinced,  in  my  case,  would  have  done  the 
same  ;  for  none  ever  so  sensibly  felt  the  misfortunes  of  others. 
What  would  you  feel,  dear  sir,  if  you  thought  yourself  the 
occasion  of  them  ?  Indeed,  sir,  there  never  was  any  misery 
like  theirs." 

"Like  whose,  child?"  says  Allworthy.  "What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  answered  Tom,  "  your  poor  gamekeeper,  with  all 
his  large  family,  ever  since  your  discarding  him,  have  been 
perishing  with  all  the  miseries  of  cold  and  hunger  :  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  these  poor  wretches  naked  and  starving,  and  at  the 
same  time  know  myself  to  have  been  the  occasion  of  all  their 


160    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

sufferings.    I  could  not  bear  it,  sir ;  upon  my  soul,  I  could  not." 

Cause  of  his         Here  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  thus  proceeded. 

sacrifice.  <«  jt  was  to  save  them  from  absolute  destruction  I  parted  with 

your  dear  present,  notwithstanding  all  the  value  I  had  for  it :  I 

sold  the  horse  for  them,  and  they  have  every  farthing  of  the 

money." 

Mr.  All  worthy  now  stood  silent  for  some  moments,  and 
before  he  spoke  the  tears  started  from  his  eyes.  He  at  length 
dismissed  Tom  with  a  gentle  rebuke,  advising  him  for  the 
future  to  apply  to  him  in  cases  of  distress,  rather  than  to  use 
extraordinary  means  of  relieving  them  himself. 

We  must  now  leave  Tom  to  grow  up,  his  character 
being  sufficiently  foreshadowed  by  these  childish  events 
for  the  reader  to  understand  what  kind  of  a  hero  he  is  to 
make,  easily  enlisting  the  sympathy  of  people  who  love 
an  honest,  happy-go-lucky  boy.  Master  Blifil,  as  may 
be  supposed,  by  the  artistic  need  of  contrast,  is  drawn 
as  a  youth  of  every  opposite  quality  to  those  of  Tom. 

A  short  hint  of  what  we  can  do  in  the  sublime,  and  a  description 
of  Miss  Sophia  Western. 

Hushed  be  every  ruder  breath.    May  the  heathen  ruler  of  the 
winds  confine   in   iron   chains   the   boisterous   limbs   of  noisy 
Boreas  and  the  sharp-pointed  nose  of  bitter-biting  Eurus.     Do 
thou,  sweet  Zephyrus,  rising  from  thy  fragrant  bed,  mount  the 
western  sky,  and  lead  on  those  delicious  gales,  the  charms  of 
which  call  forth  the  lovely  Flora  from  her  chamber,  perfumed 
with  pearly  dews,  when  on  the   ist  of  June,  her  birthday,  the 
blooming  maid,  in  loose  attire,  gently  trips  it  over  the  verdant 
M^ss  Sop'hia°       mead,  where  every  flower  rises  to  do  her  homage,  till  the  whole 
Western.  field,  becomes  enamelled,  and  colors  contend  with  sweets  which 

shall  ravish  her  most. 

So  charming  may  she  now  appear  !  and  you  the  feathered 
choristers  of  nature,  whose  sweetest  notes  not  even  Handel  can 
excel,  tune  your  melodious  throats  to  celebrate  her  appearance. 
From  love  proceeds  your  music,  and  to  love  it  returns.  Awaken 
therefore  that  gentle  passion  in  every  swain  :  for  lo  !  adorned 
with  all  the  charms  in  which  nature  can  array  her  ;  bedecked 
with  beauty,  youth,  sprightliness,  innocence,  modesty,  and 


Fielding.  161 

tenderness,  breathing  sweetness  from  her  rosy  lips,  and 
darting  brightness  from  her  sparkling  eyes,  the  lovely  Sophia 
comes  ! 

Reader,  perhaps  thou  hast  seen  the  statue  of  the  Venus  de 
Medicis.  Perhaps,  too,  thou  hast  seen  the  gallery  of  beauties 
at  Hampton  Court.  Thou  may'st  remember  each  bright 

Churchill  of  the  galaxy,  and  all  the  toasts  of  the  Kit-cat.     Or.  if  Toasts  of  the 

Kit-cat 
their  reign  was  before  thy  times,  at  least  thou  hast  seen  their 

daughters,  the  no  less  dazzling  beauties  of  the  present  age  ; 
whose  names,  should  we  here  insert,  we  apprehend  they  would 
fill  the  whole  volume. 

Now  if  thou  hast  seen  all  these  without  knowing  what  beauty 
is,  thou  hast  no  eyes  ;  if  without  feeling  its  power,  thou  hast 
no  heart. 

Yet  it  is  possible,  my  friend,  that  thou  mayest  have  seen  all 
these  without  being  able  to  form  an  exact  idea  of  Sophia,  for 
she  did  not  exactly  resemble  any  of  them.  She  was  most  like 
the  picture  of  Lady  Ranelegh  ;  and,  I  have  heard,  more  still  to 
the  famous  Duchess  of  Mazarine  ;  but  most  of  all  she  resembled 
one  whose  image  can  never  depart  from  my  breast,  and  whom, 
if  thou  dost  remember  thou  hast  then,  my  friend,  an  adequate 
idea  of  Sophia. 

Sophia,  then,  the  only  daughter  of  Mr.  Western,  was  a  middle 
sized  woman,  but  rather  inclining  to  tall.  Her  hair,  which  was 
black,  was  so  luxuriant  that  it  reached  her  middle,  before  she  cut 
it  to  comply  with  the  modern  fashion.  Her  eyebrows  were  full, 
even  and  arched  beyond  the  power  of  art  to  imitate.  Her  black 
eyes  had  a  luster  in  them  which  all  her  softness  could  not  extin- 
guish. Her  nose  was  exactly  regular,  and  her  mouth,  in  which 

were  two  rows  of  ivory,  exactly  answered  Sir  John  Suckling's   Sir  John 
,          .  ..      }>  *  J  &        Suckling's 

description  in  these  lines  :  description. 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 

Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin, 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly). 

Her  cheeks  were  of  the  oval  kind  ;  and  in  her  right  she  had  a 
dimple  which  the  least  smile  discovered.  Her  chin  had  cer- 
tainly its  share  in  forming  the  beauty  of  her  face,  but  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  say  whether  it  was  either  large  or  small,  though  perhaps 
it  was  rather  of  the  former  kind.  Her  complexion  had  rather 
more  of  the  lily  than  of  the  rose  ;  but  when  exercise  or  modesty 


1 62     Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

increased  her  natural  color,  no  vermilion  could  equal  it.  Then 
one  might  indeed  cry  out  with  the  celebrated  Dr.  Donne  : 

Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought, 
That  one  might  almost  say  her  body  thought. 
Such  was  the  outside  of  Sophia  ;  nor  was  this  beautiful  frame 
The  mind  of        disgraced  by  an  inhabitant  unworthy  of  it.    Her  mind  was  every 
Sophia.  \vay  equal  to  her  person  ;  nay,  the  latter  borrowed  some  charms 

from  the  former ;  for  when  she  smiled,  the  sweetness  of  her 
temper  diffused  that  glory  over  her  countenance  which  no  regu- 
larity of  features  can  give.  But  as  there  are  no  perfections  of 
the  mind  which  do  not  discover  themselves  in  that  perfect  inti- 
macy to  which  we  intend  to  introduce  our  reader  with  this 
charming  young  creature,  so  it  is  needless  to  mention  them 
here  :  nay,  it  is  a  kind  of  tacit  affront  to  our  reader's  under- 
standing, and  may  also  rob  him  of  that  pleasure  which  he  will 
receive  in  forming  his  own  judgment  of  her  character. 

It  may,  however,  be  proper  to  say,  that  whatever  mental 
accomplishments  she  had  derived  from  nature,  they  were  some- 
what improved  and  cultivated  by  art :  for  she  had  been  edu- 
cated under  the  care  of  an  aunt,  who  was  a  lady  of  great  dis- 
cretion, and  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  world,  having 
lived  in  her  youth  about  the  court,  whence  she  had  retired  some 
years  since  into  the  country.  By  her  conversation  and  instruc- 
tions, Sophia  was  perfectly  well  bred,  though  perhaps  she 
wanted  a  little  of  that  ease  in  her  behavior  which  is  to  be 
acquired  only  by  habit,  and  living  within  what  is  called  the 
polite  circle. 

Wherein  the  history  goes  back  to  commemorate  a  trifling  inci- 
dent that  happened  some  years  since  ;  but  which,  trifling  as  it 
was,  had  some  future  consequences. 

The  amiable  Sophia  was  now  in  her  eighteenth  year,  when 
dem  tha*  mC1"  she  is  introduced  into  this  history.  Her  father,  as  hath  been 
happened  some  said,  was  fonder  of  her  than  any  other  human  creature.  To 

years  earlier.  . 

her,  therefore,  lom  Jones  applied,  in  order  to  engage  her 
interest  on  the  behalf  of  his  friend,  the  gamekeeper, 

But  before  we  proceed  to  this  business,  a  short  recapitulation 
of  some  previous  matters  may  be  necessary. 

Though  the  different  tempers  of  Mr.  All  worthy  and  of  Mr. 


Fielding.  163 

Western  did  not  admit  of  a  very  intimate  correspondence,  yet 
they  lived  upon  what  is  called  a  decent  footing  together  ;  by 
which  means  the  .young  people  of  both  families  had  been 
acquainted  from  their  infancy ;  and  as  they  were  all  near  of 
the  same  age,  had  been  frequent  playmates  together. 

The  gaiety  of  Tom's  temper  suited  better  with  Sophia  than    Tom  and 
the  grave  and  sober  disposition  of  Master   Blifil.      And  the    Master  Blifil. 
preference  which  she  gave  the  former  of  these  would  often 
appear  so  plainly  that  a  lad  of  a  more  passionate  turn  than  Mas- 
ter Blifil  was  might  have  shown  some  displeasure  at  it. 

As  he  did  not,  however,  outwardly  express  any  such  disgust, 
it  would  be  an  ill  office  in  us  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  inmost 
recesses  of  his  mind,  as  some  scandalous  people  search  into  the 
most  secret  affairs  of  their  friends,  and  often  pry  into  their 
closets  and  cupboards,  only  to  discover  their  poverty  and  mean- 
ness to  the  world. 

However,  as  persons  who  suspect  they  have  given  others 
cause  of  offense  are  apt  to  conclude  they  are  offended,  so  Sophia 
imputed  an  action  of  Master  Blifil  to  his  anger,  which  the  supe- 
rior sagacity  of  Thwackum  discerned  to  have  arisen  from  a 
much  better  principle. 

Tom  Tones  when  very  young  had  presented  Sophia  with  a 
,.,,.,,.,  ,  j  ,  ,-  j  The  little  bird, 

little  bird  which  he  had  taken  from  the  nest,  had  nursed  up  and 

taught  to  sing. 

Of  this  bird,  Sophia,  then  about  thirteen  years  old,  was  so 
extremely  fond  that  her  chief  business  was  to  feed  and  tend  it, 
and  her  chief  pleasure  to  play  with  it. 

By  these  means  little  Tommy,  for  so  the  bird  was  called,  was 
become  so  tame  that  it  would  feed  out  of  her  hand,  but  she 
always  kept  a  small  string  about  its  leg. 

One  day  Mr.  Blifil  observing  the  extreme  fondness  that  she 
showed  for  her  little  bird  desired  her  to  trust  it  for  a  moment  in 
his  hand.  Sophia  presently  complied  with  the  request  and 
delivered  him  her  bird,  of  which  he  was  no  sooner  in  pos- 
session than  he  slipt  the  string  from  its  leg  and  tossed  it  into 
the  air. 

Sophia  seeing  her  bird  gone  screamed  out  so  loud  that  Tom 
Jones,   who  was  at  a  little  distance,  immediately  ran   to   her    ! 
assistance,  and  stripping  off  his  coat,  applied  himself  to  climb- 
ing the  tree  to  which  the  bird  escaped.     He  had  almost  recov- 
ered  his   little   namesake   when  the  branch  on  which   it  was 


164    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

perched  and  that  hung  over  a  canal  broke,  and  the  poor  lad 
plumped  over  head  and  ears  in  the  water. 

Sophia  screamed  ten  times  louder  than  before  and  indeed 
Mr.  Blifil  himself  now  seconded  her  with  all  the  vociferation  in 
his  power. 

The  company,  who  were  sitting  in  a  room  next  the  garden, 
were  instantly  alarmed,  and  came  all  forth ;  but  just  as  they 
reached  the  canal,  Tom  (for  the  water  was  luckily  pretty  shal- 
low in  that  part)  arrived  safely  on  shore. 

Thwackum  fell  violently  on  poor  Tom,  who  stood  dropping 
and  shivering  before  him,  when  Mr.  Allworthy  desired  him  to 
have  patience  ;  and  turning  to  Master  Blifil,  said,  "  Pray,  child, 
what  is  the  reason  of  all  this  disturbance  ? " 

Blifil's  e  olana-       Master  Blifil  answered,  "Indeed,  uncle,  I  am  very  sorry  for 
tion.  what  I  have  done  ;  I  have  been  unhappily  the  occasion  of  it  all. 

I  had  Miss  Sophia's  bird  in  my  hand,  and  thinking  the  poor 
creature  languished  for  liberty,  I  own  I  could  not  forbear  giving 
it  what  it  desired  ;  for  I  always  thought  there  was  something 
very  cruel  in  confining  anything.  It  seemed  to  be  against  the 
law  of  nature,  by  which  everything  hath  a  right  to  liberty  ; 
nay,  it  is  even  unchristian,  for  it  is  not  doing  what  we  would  be 
done  by  :  but  if  I  had  imagined  Miss  Sophia  would  have  been 
so  much  concerned  at  it,  I  am  sure  I  never  would  have  done 
it ;  nay,  if  I  had  known  what  would  have  happened  to  the  bird 
itself :  for  when  Master  Jones,  who  climbed  up  that  tree  after 
it,  fell  into  the  water,  the  bird  took  a  second  flight,  and 
presently  a  nasty  hawk  carried  it  away." 

Poor  Sophia,  who  now  first  heard  of  her  little  Tommy's  fate 
(for  her  concern  for  Jones  had  prevented  her  perceiving  it  when 
Sophia's  it  happened),  shed  a  shower  of  tears.     These  Mr.  Allworthy 

endeavored  to  assuage,  promising  her  a  much  finer  bird  :  but 
she  declared  she  would  never  have  another.  Her  father  chid 
her  for  crying  so  for  a  foolish  bird  ;  but  could  not  help  telling 
young  Blifil,  if  he  was  a  son  of  his,  he  should  be  well  punished. 
Sophia  now  returned  to  her  chamber,  the  two  young  gentle- 
men were  sent  home,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  returned  to 
their  bottle. 

Since  the  adventure  of  the  bird,  Sophia  had  been 
absent  upward  of  three  years  with  her  aunt,  during 
which  she  had  seen  neither  of  these  young  gentlemen. 


Fielding.  1 65 

The  young  lady  was  now  returned  to  her  father  ;  who  gave 
her  the  command  of  his  house,  and  placed  her  at  the  upper  end 
of  his  table,  where  Tom  (who  for  his  great  love  of  hunting  was 
become  a  great  favorite  of  the  squire)  often  dined.      Young 
men  of  open,  generous  dispositions  are  naturally  inclined  to 
gallantry,  which,  if  they  have  good  understandings,  as  was  in 
reality  Tom's   case,  exerts  itself  in  an  obliging  complacent 
behavior  to  all  women  in  general.     This  greatly  distinguished   Tom  distin. 
Tom  from  the  boisterous   brutality  of  mere   country  squires   guished  from 
on  the  one  hand,  and  from  the  solemn  and  somewhat  sullen   country  squire, 
deportment    of  Master  Blifil  on  the  other  ;  and  he  began  now, 
at  twenty,  to  have  the  name  of  a  pretty  fellow  among  all  the 
women  in  the  neighborhood. 

Tom  behaved  to  Sophia  with  no  particularity,  unless  perhaps 
by  showing  her  a  higher  respect  than  he  paid  to  any  other  ;  a 
distinction  her  beauty,  fortune,  sense,  and  amiable  carriage 
seemed  to  demand. 

Sophia,  with  the  highest  degree  of  innocence  and  modesty, 
had  a  remarkable  sprightliness  in  her  temper.  This  was  so 
greatly  increased  whenever  she  was  in  company  with  Tom,  that 
had  he  not  been  very  young  and  thoughtless,  he  must  have 
observed  it ;  or  had  not  Mr.  Western's  thoughts  been  generally 
either  in  the  field,  the  stable,  or  the  dog-kennel,  it  might  have 
perhaps  created  some  jealousy  in  him  ;  but  so  far  was  the 
good  gentleman  from  entertaining  any  such  suspicions  that  he 
gave  Tom  every  opportunity  with  his  daughter  which  any  lover 
could  have  wished  ;  and  this  Tom  innocently  improved  to 
better  advantage,  by  following  only  the  dictates  of  his  natural 
gallantry  and  good-nature  than  he  might  perhaps  have  done 
had  he  had  the  deepest  designs  on  the  young  lady. 

But  indeed  it  can  occasion  little  wonder  that  this  matter 
escaped  the  observation  of  others,  since  poor  Sophia  herself 
never  remarked  it ;  and  her  heart  was  irretrievably  lost  before 
she  suspected  it  was  in  danger. 

Matters  were  in  this  situation  when  Tom  one  after- 
noon finding  Sophia  alone  began,  after  a  short  apology, 
to  acquaint  her  that  he  had  a  favor  to  ask  of  her. 

At  this  her  color  forsook  her  cheeks,  her  limbs  trembled,  and    He  asks  a 
her   tongue  would   have   faltered,    had   Tom   stopped   for   an     a%or- 


1 66    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

answer  ;  but  he  soon  relieved  her  by  proceeding  to  inform  her 
of  his  request,  which  was  to  solicit  her  interests  on  behalf  of 
the  gamekeeper,  whose  own  ruin  and  that  of  a  large  family 
must  be,  he  said,  the  consequence  of  Mr.  Western's  pursuing 
his  action  against  him. 

Sophia  presently  recovered  her  composure,  and  with  a  smile 
full  of  sweetness  said,  "  Is  this  the  mighty  favor  you  asked 
with  so  much  gravity  ?  I  will  do  it  with  all  my  heart.  I  really 
pity  the  poor  fellow,  and  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  sent  a 
small  matter  to  his  wife."  Our  youth,  now  emboldened  with 
his  success,  resolved  to  push  the  matter  farther,  and  ventured 
to  beg  her  recommendation  of  him  to  her  father's  service. 

Sophia  answered:  "  Well,  I  will  undertake  this  too,  but  I  can- 
not promise  you  as  much  success  as  in  the  former  part,  which  I 
assure  you  I  will  not  quit  my  father  without  obtaining." 

It  was  Mr.  Western's  custom  every  afternoon,  as  soon  as  he 
was  drunk,  to  hear  his  daughter  play  on  the  harpsichord  ;  for 
he  was  a  great  lover  of  music,  and  perhaps,  had  he  lived  in 
town,  might  have  passed  for  a  connoisseur  ;  for  he  always 
excepted  against  the  finest  compositions  of  Mr.  Handel.  He 
never  relished  any  music  but  what  was  light  and  airy  ;  and 
indeed  his  most  favorite  tunes  were  "  Old  Sir  Simon  the  King," 
"St.  George  he  was  for  England,"  "  Bobbing  Joan,"  and  some 
others. 

His  daughter,  though  she  was  a  perfect  mistress  of  music, 
and  would  never  willingly  have  played  any  but  Handel's,  was 
so  devoted  to  her  father's  pleasure  that  she  learnt  all  those 
tunes  to  oblige  him.  However,  she  would  now  and  then 
endeavor  to  lead  him  into  her  own  taste  ;  and  when  he  required 
the  repetition  of  his  ballads,  would  answer  with  a  "  Nay,  dear 
sir,"  and  would  often  beg  him  to  suffer  her  to  play  something 
else. 

This  evening,  however,  when  the  gentleman  was  retired  from 
his  bottle,  she  played  all  his  favorites  three  times  over  without 
Sophia  uses  any  solicitation.  This  so  pleased  the  good  squire  that  he 
started  from  his  couch,  gave  his  daughter  a  kiss,  and  swore  her 
hand  was  greatly  improved.  .She  took  this  opportunity  to 
execute  her  promise  to  Tom  ;  in  which  she  succeeded  so  well 
that  the  squire  declared,  if  she  would  give  him  t'other  bout  of 
"  Old  Sir  Simon,"  he  would  give  the  gamekeeper  his  deputation 
the  next  morning.  "  Sir  Simon  "  was  played  again  and  again,  till 


Fielding.  167 

the  charms  of  the  music  soothed  Mr.  Western  to  sleep.     In  the 
morning  Sophia  did  not  fail  to  remind  him  of  his  engagement ;    The 
and  his  attorney  was  immediately  sent  for,  ordered  to  stop  any   f^ 
further  proceedings  in  the  action,  and  to  make  out  the  deputa- 
tion. 

I  have  given  so  much  space  to  the  early  love  affairs  of 
Tom  and  Sophia,  because  it  is  really  the  most  simple 
and  charming  part  of  the  book. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

TOM'S  delinquencies  and  misdemeanors  came  to  such 

Tom  Jones          a  pass   that  he  was  turned  out  of  doors,    a  result  that 

dooresdoutof      would   not  have   been   reached   but   for  the  ill-will   of 

Master  Blifil  and  his  mother,  who  were  determined  to 

get  rid  of  him,  and  so  misrepresented  his  conduct  to  Mr. 

Allworthy  as  to  put  everything  in  its  worst  light.     That 

good  gentleman   gave  Tom    a   well-filled   pocket-book 

(which  Tom  immediately  lost)  and  parted  with  him  with 

honest  regret. 

Now  begins  a  series  of  wonderful  adventures,  in  the 
line  of  those  of  Don  Quixote  and  Gil  Bias,  with  the  differ- 
ence that  they  are  described  with  an  air  of  great  fresh- 
ness, and  the  events  are  all  "up  to  date,"  to  use  a 
modern  expression.  Tom  fell  in  with  Partridge,  the 
butt  of  the  book,  and  they  traveled  together,  stopping 
at  bad  inns  and  good  inns,  out  of  pocket,  falling  off 
horses,  meeting  villains  and  fine  ladies,  and  entertaining 
angels  unawares. 

Meanwhile  Sophia,  being  urged,  and  threatened  by 
tSraveifngon  force  to  marry  Blifil,  ran  away  from  her  father's  house, 
accompanied  by  her  maid  Honour.  These  were  therefore 
traveling  round  the  country  on  horseback,  meeting  all 
sorts  of  adventures  and  falling  into  much  ill-luck.  Jones 
was  constantly  upon  their  tracks,  but  never  coming  up 
with  them,  although  he  knew  they  were  on  the  road, 
and  shaped  his  otherwise  inexplicable  course  in  the 
intent  of  following  them.  The  picture  we  get  of  the 
difficulties  of  traveling  in  those  days  is  not  exaggerated, 


Fielding. '  169 

for  no  doubt  the  dangers  of  a  real  journey  were  as  great 
as  theirs. 

The  disasters  which  befel   Tom  Jones  on  his  departure  for 
Coventry  ;  with  the  sage  remarks  of  Partridge. 

No  road  can  be  plainer  than  that  from  the  place  where  they 
now  were  to  Coventry  ;  and  though  neither  Jones,  nor  Part- 
ridge, nor  the  guide,  had  ever  traveled  it  before,  it  would  seem 
almost  impossible  for  them  to  miss  their  way. 

Circumstances,  however,  happening  unfortunately  to  inter- 
vene, our  travelers  deviated  into  a  much  less  frequented  track  ; 
and  after  riding  full  six  miles,  instead  of  arriving  at  the  stately 
spires  of  Coventry  they  found  themselves  still  in  a  very  dirty 
lane,  where  they  saw  no  symptoms  of  approaching  the  suburbs 
of  a  large  city. 

Jones  now  declared  that  they  must  certainly  have  lost  their 

,.,,-.,  •  ,     .      .   .     ,  .  .,  ,  ,     Tom  loses  his 

way  ;  but  this  the  guide  insisted  upon  was  impossible  ;  a  word    way> 

which,  in  common  conversation,  is  often  used  to  signify  not 
only  improbable,  but  often  what  is  really  very  likely,  and, 
sometimes,  what  hath  certainly  happened ;  an  hyperbolical 
violence  like  that  which  is  so  frequently  offered  to  the  words 
infinite  and  eternal ;  by  the  former  of  which  it  is  usual  to 
express  a  distance  of  half  a  yard,  and  by  the  latter,  a  duration 
of  five  minutes.  And  thus  it  is  as  usual  to  assert  the  impossi- 
bility of  losing  what  is  already  actually  lost.  This  was,  in  fact, 
the  case  at  present ;  for,  notwithstanding  all  the  confident 
assertions  of  the  lad  to  the  contrary,  it  is  certain  they  were  no 
more  in  the  right  road  to  Coventry  than  the  fraudulent,  griping, 
cruel,  canting  miser  is  in  the  right  road  to  heaven. 

It  is  not,  perhaps,  easy  for  a  reader  who  hath  never  been  in 
those  circumstances  to  imagine  the  horror  with  which  darkness, 
rain,  and  wind  fill  persons  who  have  lost  their  way  in  the  night ; 
and  who,  consequently,  have  not  the  pleasant  prospect  of  warm 
fires,    dry  clothes,   and  other  refreshments  to  support  their 
minds  in  struggling  with  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather.     A    The  horror  of 
very  imperfect  idea  of  this  horror  will,  however,  serve  suffi-    Partridge, 
ciently  to  account  for  the  conceits  which  now  filled  the  head  of 
Partridge,  and  which  we  shall  presently  be  obliged  to  open. 

Jones  grew  more  and  more  positive  that  they  were  out  of 
their  road  ;  and  the  boy  himself  at  last  acknowledged  he  be- 


170    Men  and  Mannets  of  the  Eighteenth  Century, 

lieved  they  were  not  in  the  right  road  to  Coventry  ;  though  he 
affirmed,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  impossible  they  should  have 
missed  the  way.  But  Partridge  was  of  a  different  opinion. 
He  said,  "When  they  first  set  out  he  imagined  some  mischief 
or  other  would  happen.  Did  not  you  observe,"  said  he  to 
Jones,  "  that  old  woman  who  stood  at  the  door  just  as  you  was 
taking  horse  ?  I  wish  you  had  given  her  a  small  matter,  with 
all  my  heart ;  for  she  said  then  you  might  repent  it ;  and  at 
that  very  instant  it  began  to  rain,  and  the  wind  hath  continued 
rising  ever  since.  Whatever  some  people  may  think,  I  am 
very  certain  it  is  in  the  power  of  witches  to  raise  the  wind 
A  witch.  whenever  they  please.  I  have  seen  it  happen  very  often  in  my 

time  ;  and  if  ever  I  saw  a  witch  in  all  my  life,  that  old  woman 
was  certainly  one.  I  thought  so  myself  at  that  very  time  ;  and 
if  I  had  had  any  halfpence  in  my  pocket,  I  would  have  given 
her  some  ;  for,  to  be  sure,  it  is  always  good  to  be  charitable  to 
those  sort  of  people,  for  fear  what  may  happen  ;  and  many 
a  person  hath  lost  his  cattle  by  saving  a  halfpenny." 

Jones,  though  he  was  horridly  vexed  at  the  delay  which  this 
mistake  was  likely  to  occasion  in  his  journey,  could  not  help 
smiling  at  the  superstition  of  his  friend,  whom  an  accident  now 
greatly  confirmed  in  his  opinion.  This  was  a  tumble  from  his 
horse  ;  by  which,  however,  he  received  no  other  injury  than 
what  the  dirt  conferred  on  his  clothes. 

Partridge  entirely  imputed  this  fall  to  the  witch. 

He  told  Mr.  Jones  it  would  certainly  be  his  own  turn  next, 
and  earnestly  entreated  him  to  return  back  and  find  out  the  old 
woman  and  pacify  her.  "We  shall  very  soon,"  added  he, 
"reach  the  inn;  for  though  we  have  seemed  to  go  forward, 
I  am  very  certain  we  are  in  the  identical  place  in  which  we 
were  an  hour  ago  ;  and  I  dare  swear,  if  it  was  daylight,  we 
might  now  see  the  inn  we  set  out  from." 

They  were  got  about  two  miles  beyond  Barnet,  and  it  was 

k>okmgnman  now  tlle  ^'^  °*~  tlle  evenms>  when  fi  genteel-looking  man,  but 
upon  a  very  shabby  horse,  rode  up  to  Jones  and  asked  him 
whether  he  was  going  to  London  ;  to  which  Jones  answered  in 
the  affirmative.  The  gentleman  replied,  "  I  should  be  obliged 
to  you,  sir,  if  you  will  accept  of  my  company  ;  for  it  is  very 
late,  and  I  am  a  stranger  to  the  road.''  Jones  readily  complied 


Fielding. 


171 


Valor  of 
Partridge. 


with  the  request ;  and  on  they  traveled  together,  holding  that 
sort  of  discourse  which  is  usual  on  such  occasions. 

Of  this,  indeed,  robbery  was  the  principal  topic  :  upon  which 
subject  the  stranger  expressed  great  apprehensions;  but  Jones 
declared  he  had  very  little  to  lose  and  consequently  as  little  to 
fear.  Here  Partridge  could  not  forbear  putting  in  his  word. 
"  Your  honor,"  said  he,  "  may  think  it  a  little,  but  I  am  sure  if 
I  had  a  hundred-pound  bank-note  in  my  pocket,  as  you  have,  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  lose  it  ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I  never 
was  less  afraid  in  my  life  ;  for  we  are  four  of  us,  and  if  we  all 
stand  by  one  another,  the  best  man  in  England  can't  rob  us. 
Suppose  he  should  have  a  pistol,  he  can  kill  but  one  of  us,  and 
a  man  can  die  but  once — That's  my  comfort,  a  man  can  die  but 
once." 

Besides  the  reliance  on  superior  numbers,  a  kind  of  valor 
which  hath  raised  a  certain  nation  among  the  moderns  to  a 
high  pitch  of  glory,  there  was  another  reason  for  the  extra- 
ordinary courage  which  Partridge  now  discovered  ;  for  he  had 
at  present  as  much  of  that  quality  as  was  in  the  power  of  liquor 
to  bestow. 

Our  company  were  now  arrived  within  a  mile  of  Highgate, 
when  the  stranger  turned  short  upon  Jones,  and  pulling  out  a 
pistol,  demanded  that  little  bank-note  which  Partridge  had 
mentioned. 

This  bank-note,  referred  to  by  Partridge,  was  in  a 
little  pocket-book  they  had  picked  up  on  their  way. 
Tom  recognized  it  as  belonging  to  Sophia,  and  held  it 
sacred,  spite  of  Partridge's  endeavors  to  make  him 
spend  its  contents  on  their  necessities. 

Jones  was  at  first  somewhat  shocked  at  this  unexpected 
demand  ;  however,  he  presently  recollected  himself,  and  told 
the  highwayman  all  the  money  he  had  in  his  pocket  was 
entirely  at  his  service  ;  and  so  saying,  he  pulled  out  upwards  of 
three  guineas,  and  offered  to  deliver  it ;  but  the  other 
answered  with  an  oath,  that  would  not  do.  Jones  answered 
coolly,  he  was  very  sorry  for  it,  and  returned  the  money  into 
his  pocket. 

The  highwayman  then  threatened  if  he  did  not  deliver  the    Sophia's  bank- 
bank-note  that  moment  he  must  shoot  him  ;  holding  his  pistol   note- 


172    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

at  the  same  time  very  near  to  his  breast.  Jones  instantly  caught 
hold  of  the  fellow's  hand,  which  trembled  so  that  he  could 
scarce  hold  the  pistol  in  it,  and  turned  the  muzzle  from  him.  A 
struggle  then  ensued,  in  which  the  former  wrested  the  pistol 
from  the  hand  of  his  antagonist,  and  both  came  from  their 
horses  on  the  ground  together,  the  highwayman  upon  his  back, 
and  the  victorious  Jones  upon  him. 

The  poor  fellow  now  began  to  implore  mercy  of  the  con- 
queror ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  he  was  in  strength  by  no  means 
a  match  for  Jones.  "  Indeed,  sir,"  says  he,  "  I  could  have  no 
intention  to  shoot  you  ;  for  you  will  find  the  pistol  was  not 
loaded.  This  is  the  first  robbery  I  ever  attempted,  and  I  have 
been  driven  by  distress  to  this." 

At  this  instant,  at  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  distance, 
highwayman!  *  laV  anotner  person  on  the  ground,  roaring  for  mercy  in  a  much 
louder  voice  than  the  highwayman.  This  was  no  other  than 
Partridge  himself,  who,  endeavoring  to  make  his  escape  from 
the  engagement,  had  been  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  lay  flat 
on  his  face,  not  daring  to  look  up  and  expecting  every  minute 
to  be  shot. 

Jones  having  examined  the  pistol,  and  found  it  to  be  really 
unloaded,  began  to  believe  all  the  man  had  told  him  before 
Partridge  came  up  :  namely,  that  he  was  a  novice  in  the  trade, 
and  that  he  had  been  driven  to  it  by  the  distress  he  mentioned, 
the  greatest  indeed  imaginable,  that  of  a  wife  and  five  hungry 
children,  and  in  the  utmost  want  and  misery.  The  truth  of  all 
which  the  highwayman  most  vehemently  asserted,  and  offered 
to  convince  Mr.  Jones  of  it,  if  he  would  take  the  trouble  to  go  to 
his  house,  which  was  not  above  two  miles  off,  saying,  "That 
he  desired  no  favor,  but  upon  condition  of  proving  all  he  had 
alleged." 

Jones  at  first  pretended  that  he  would  take  the  fellow  at  his 
passion.00'  word,  and  go  with  him,  declaring  that  his  fate  should  depend 

entirely  on  the  truth  of  his  story.  Upon  this  the  poor  fellow 
immediately  expressed  so  much  alacrity  that  Jones  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  his  veracity,  and  began  now  to  entertain 
sentiments  of  compassion  for  him.  lie  returned  the  fellow  his 
empty  pistol,  advised  him  to  think  of  honester  means  of  reliev- 
ing his  distress,  and  gave  him  a  couple  of  guineas  for  the  imme- 
diate support  of  his  wife  and  his  family  ;  adding,  "he  wished  he 


Fielding.  173 

had  more  for  his  sake,  for  the  hundred  pound  that  had  been 
mentioned  was  not  his  own." 

Our  readers  will  probably  be  divided  in  their  opinions  con- 
cerning this  action  ;  some  may  applaud  it  perhaps  as  an  act  of 
extraordinary  humanity,  while  those  of  a  more  saturnine  tem- 
per will  consider  it  as  a  want  of  regard  to  that  justice  which 
every  man  owes  his  country.  Partridge  certainly  saw  it  in  that 
light ;  for  he  testified  much  dissatisfaction  on  the  occasion, 
quoted  an  old  proverb,  and  said,  he  should  not  wonder  if  the 
rogue  attacked  them  again  before  they  reached  London. 

The  highwayman  was  full  of  expressions  of  thankfulness  and 
gratitude.    He  actually  dropt  tears,  or  pretended  so  to  do.    He   The  highway- 
vowed  he  would  immediately  return  home,  and  would  never   tude. 
afterward  commit  such  a  transgression  :  whether  he  kept  his 
word  or  no  perhaps  may  appear  hereafter. 

Our  travelers  having  remounted  their  horses,  arrived  in  town 
without  encountering  any  new  mishap. 

Now  Sophia,  strangely  enough,  had  fallen  in  with  a 
traveling  lady  who  proved  (really)  to  be  her  own  cousin, 
one  Mrs.  Fitz  Patrick,  who  was  on  her  way  to  London 
with  a  certain  nobleman,  an  Irish  peer,  of  her  neighbor- 
hood. 

We  will  therefore  attend  his  lordship  and  his  fair  companions, 
who  made  such  good  expedition  that  they  performed  a  journey  ^l^'o  London 
of  ninety  miles  in  two  days,  and  on  the  second  evening  arrived 
in  London  without  having  encountered  any  one  adventure 
on  the  road  worthy  the  dignity  of  this  history  to  relate.  Our 
pen,  therefore,  shall  imitate  the  expedition  which  it  describes, 
and  our  history  shall  keep  pace  with  the  travelers  who  are  its 
subject.  Good  writers  will,  indeed,  do  well  to  imitate  the 
ingenious  traveler,  in  this  instance,  who  always  proportions  his 
stay  at  any  place  to  the  beauties,  elegancies,  and  curiosities 
which  it  affords.  At  Eshur,  at  Stowe,  at  Wilton,  at  Eastbury, 
and  at  Prior's  Park,  days  are  too  short  for  the  ravished  imagi- 
nation ;  while  we  admire  the  wondrous  power  of  art  in 
improving  nature.  In  some  of  these,  art  chiefly  engages  our 
adtniration  ;  in  others,  nature  and  art  contend  for  our  applause  ; 
but,  in  the  last,  the  former  seems  to  triumph.  Here  nature 
appears  in  her  richest  attire,  and  art,  dressed  with  the  modest- 


174    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Centiiry. 

est  simplicity,  attends  her  benignant  mistress.  Here  nature 
indeed  pours  forth  the  choicest  treasures  which  she  hath  lav- 
ished on  this  world  ;  and  here  human  nature  presents  you  with 
an  object  which  can  be  exceeded  only  in  the  other. 

The  same  taste,  the  same  imagination,  which  luxuriously 
riots  in  these  elegant  scenes,  can  be  amused  with  objects  of  far 
The  ingenious  inferior  note.  The  woods,  the  rivers,  the  lawns  of  Devon  and 
of  Dorset,  attract  the  eye  of  the  ingenious  traveler  and  retard 
his  pace,  which  delay  he  afterward  compensates  by  swiftly 
scouring  over  the  gloomy  heath  of  Bagshot,  or  that  pleasant 
plain  which  extends  itself  westward  from  Stockbridge,  where  no 
other  object  than  one  single  tree  only  in  sixteen  miles  presents 
itself  to  the  view,  unless  the  clouds,  in  compassion  to  our  tired 
spirits,  kindly  open  their  variegated  mansions  to  our  prospect. 
Not  so  travels  the  money-meditating  tradesman,  the  saga- 
cious justice,  the  dignified  doctor,  the  warm-clad  grazier,  with 
all  the  numerous  offspring  of  wealth  and  dulness.  On  they 
jog,  with  equal  pace,  through  the  verdant  meadows  or  over  the 
barren  heath,  their  horses  measuring  four  miles  and  a  half  per 
hour  with  the  utmost  exactness  ;  the  eyes  of  the  beast  and  of 
his  master  being  alike  directed  forwards,  and  employed  in  con- 
templating the  same  objects  in  the  same  manner.  With  equal 
mediating"  rapture  the  good  rider  surveys  the  proudest  boasts  of  the  archi- 
tradesman.  tect  and  those  fair  buildings  with  which  some  unknown  name 
hath  adorned  the  rich  clothing  town  ;  where  heaps  of  bricks  are 
piled  up  as  a  kind  of  monument  to  show  that  heaps  of  money 
have  been  piled  there  before. 

And  now,  reader,  as  we  are  in  haste  to  attend  our  heroine, 
we  will  leave  to  thy  sagacity  to  apply  all  this  to  the  Boeotian 
writers,  and  to  those  authors  who  are  their  opposites.  This 
thou  wilt  be  abundantly  able  to  perform  without  our  aid. 
Bestir  thyself  therefore  on  this  occasion  ;  for,  though  we  will 
always  lend  thee  proper  assistance  in  difficult  places,  as  we  do 
not,  like  some  others,  expect  thee  to  use  the  arts  of  divination 
to  discover  our  meaning,  yet  we  shall  not  indulge  thy  laziness 
where  nothing  by  thy  own  attention  is  required ;  for  thou  art 
highly  mistaken  if  thou  dost  imagine  that  we  intended,  when 
we  began  this  great  work,  to  leave  thy  sagacity  nothing  to  do  ; 
or  that,  without  sometimes  exercising  this  talent,  thou  will  be 
able  to  travel  through  our  pages  with  any  pleasure  or  profit  to 
thyself. 


Fielding.  175 

Tom  arrived  in  London  not  long  after  his  Sophia,  but 
it  was  a  long  time  before  he  succeeded  in  finding  her,  Tom's  arrival 

'     in  London. 

though  his  search  was  diligent.  He  managed  to  amuse 
himself  and  keep  up  his  spirits  with  diversions  not 
always  creditable.  Here  is  an  account  of  one  of  the  few 
unobjectionable  things  he  did. 

This  was  to  attend  Mrs.  Miller  and  her  younger  daughter 
into  the  gallery  at  the  playhouse,  and  to  admit  Mr.  Partridge  as 
one  of  the  company.  For  as  Jones  had  really  that  taste  for 
humor  which  many  affect,  he  expected  to  enjoy  much  entertain- 
ment in  the  criticisms  of  Partridge,  from  whom  he  expected 
the  simple  dictates  of  nature,  unimproved,  indeed,  but  likewise 
unadulterated,  by  art. 

In  the  first  row  then  of  the  first  gallery  did  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs. 
Miller,  her  youngest  daughter,  and  Partridge  take  their  places. 
Partridge  immediately  declared  it  was  the  finest  place  he  had 
ever  been  in.  When  the  first  music  was  played,  he  said,  "  It 
was  a  wonder  how  so  many  fiddlers  could  play  at  one  time, 
without  putting  one  another  out."  While  the  fellow  was  light- 
ing the  upper  candles,  he  cried  out  to  Mrs.  Miller,  "Look, 
look,  madam,  the  very  picture  of  the  man  in  the  end  of  the 
common-prayer  book  before  the  gunpowder-treason  service." 
Nor  could  he  help  observing,  with  a  sigh,  when  all  the  candles 
were  lighted,  "That  here  were  candles  enough  burnt  in  one 
night  to  keep  an  honest  poor  family  for  a  whole  twelvemonth." 

As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  "Hamlet,  Prince  of  Den-< 
mark,"  began,  Partridge  was  all  attention,  nor  did  he  break 
silence  till  the  entrance  of  the  ghost ;  upon  which  he  asked 
Jones,  "  What  man  that  was  in  the  strange  dress  ;  something,"    partrjdKeat 
said  he,  "like  what  I  have  seen  in  a  picture.     Sure  it  is  not  the  play. 
armor,  is  it?"    Jones  answered,  "That  is  the  ghost."     To 
which  Partridge  replied  with  a  smile,  "Persuade  me  to  that, 
sir,  if  you  can.     Though  I  can't  say  I  ever  actually  saw  a  ghost 
in  my  life,  yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know  one,  if  I  saw  him, 
better  than  that  comes  to.      No,  no,  sir,  ghosts  don't  appear  in 
such  dresses  as  that,  neither."      In  this  mistake,  which  caused 
much   laughter    in    the    neighborhood    of  Partridge,  he    was 
suffered  to  continue  till   the  scene    between  the  ghost  and 
Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which 


176    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


The  ghost. 


Preference  of 
Partridge  for 
the  king. 


he  had  denied  to  Jones  and  fell  into  so  violent  a  trembling  that 
his  knees  knocked  against  each  other.  Jones  asked  him  what 
was  the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  warrior  upon 
the  stage?  "  O  la  !  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  perceive  now  it  is'  what 
you  told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  ;  for  I  know  it  is  but 
a  play.  And  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  harm 
at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much  company  ;  and  yet  if  I  was 
frightened,  I  am  not  the  only  person."  "Why,  who,"  cries 
Jones,  "dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here  besides  thy- 
self?" "Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward  if  you  will;  but  if 
that  little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never 
saw  any  man  frightened  in  my  life.  Ay,  ay  :  go  along  with 
you!  Ay,  to  be  sure  !  Who's  fool  then?  Will  you?  Lud  have 
mercy  upon  such  fool-hardiness  ? — Whatever  happens,  it  is 

good  enough  for  you. Follow^  you  ?      I'd  follow  the  devil  as 

soon.      Nay,  perhaps,  it  is  the  devil for  they  say  he  can  put 

on  what  likeness  he  pleases. — Oh  !  here  he  is  again. No 

farther  !  No,  you  have  gone  far  enough  already  ;  farther  than 
I'd  have  gone  for  all  the  king's  dominions."  Jones  offered  to 
speak,  but  Partridge  cried,  "Hush,  hush  !  dear  sir,  don't  you 
hear  him?"  And  during  the  whole  speech  of  the  ghost,  he 
sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  partly  on  the  ghost  and  partly  on 
Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open,  the  same  passions  which 
succeeded  each  other  in  Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in  him. 

The  scene  is  too  long  to  make  further  extracts  ;  and 
moreover  has  been  so  often  quoted  as  to  be  pretty  gen- 
•  erally  known,  even  now. 

Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play,  at 
the  end  of  which  Jones  asked  him,  "Which  of  the  players  he 
liked  best?"  To  this  he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of 
indignation  at  the  question,  "  The  king,  without  doubt."  "  In- 
deed, Mr.  Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not  of  the 
same  opinion  of  the  town  ;  for  they  are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet 
is  acted  by  the  best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage."  "  He 
the  best  player  !  "  cries  Partridge,  with  a  contemptuous  sneer, 
"why,  I  could  act  as  well  as  he  myself.  I  am  sure,  if  I  had 
seen  a  ghost,  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  manner, 
and  done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene, 
as  you  called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where  vou  told 


Fielding.  177 

me  he  acted  so  fine,  why,  Lord  help  me,  any  man,  that  is,  any 
good  man  that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  exactly 
the  same.  I  know  you  are  only  joking  with  me  ;  but  indeed, 
madam,  though  I  was  never  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have 
seen  acting  before  in  the  country  ;  and  the  king  for  my  money  ; 
he  speaks  all  his  words  distinctly,  half  as  loud  again  as  the 
other.  Anybody  may  see  he  is  an  actor." 

Things  are  now  drawing  to  an  end,  but  gradually, 
after  the  fashion  of  all  the  old  books.  Squire  Western  Squire  Western 

in  London. 

came  to  town  and  discovered  his  daughter.  Tom,  after 
a  duel  with  a  gentleman  which  was  near  to  proving  fatal 
to  his  adversary,  no  other  than  Mr.  Fitz  Patrick,  who 
encountered  Tom  coming  away  from  his  wife,  whom, 
however,  Tom  had  been  innocently  visiting  on  account 
of  his  Sophia,  was  discovered  in  prison  and  forgiven  by 
the  squire,  Mr.  Allworthy,  and  everybody.  For  Mr. 
Alhvorthy  was  also  in  town  to  press  the  suit  of  Mr.  Blifil 
upon  Sophia,  but  about  this  time  it  was  proved  beyond 
peradventure  that  Blifil  was  a  wretch  and  full  of  every 
villainy  ;  moreover,  it  came  now  to  light  that  Tom 
Jones,  the  foundling,  was  the  son  of  no  other  than  Mr. 
Allworthy' s  sister,  and  therefore  his  elder  nephew, 
having  been  born  before  her  marriage  with  Blifil' s 
father.  Blifil  was  now  turned  out  of  doors  and  our 
hero  reinstated. 

Jones,  being  now  completely  dressed,  attended  his  uncle  to 
Mr.  Western's.  He  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  finest  figures  ever  Approaching 
beheld,  and  his  person  alone  would  have  charmed  the  greater 
part  of  womankind  ;  but  we  hope  it  hath  appeared  already  in 
this  history  that  nature,  when  she  formed  him,  did  not  totally 
rely,  as  she  sometimes  doth,  on  this  merit  only  to  recommend 
her  work. 

Sophia,  who  was  likewise  set  forth  to  the  best  advantage,  for 
which  I  leave  my  female  readers  to  account,  appeared  so  ex- 
tremely beautiful  that  even  Allworthy,  when  he  saw  her,  could 
not  forbear  whispering  to  Western  that  he  believed  she  was 
the  finest  creature  in  the  world. 


178    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Cent^lry, 

The  tea-table  was  scarce  removed  before  Western  lugged 
Allworthy  out  of  the  room,  telling  him  he  had  business  of  con- 
sequence to  impart,  and  must  speak  to  him  that  instant  in  pri- 
vate, before  he  forgot  it. 

The  happy  All  ends  well,  with  the  happy  marriage  of  Tom  and 

Tom'and  °         Sophia.     The  affairs  of  everybody  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance are  wound  up  with  careful  detail. 

To  conclude,  as  there  are  not  to  be  found  a  worthier  man  and 
woman  than  this  fond  couple,  so  neither  can  any  be  imagined 
more  happy.  They  preserve  the  purest  and  tenderest  affection 
for  each  other,  an  affection  daily  increased  and  confirmed  by 
mutual  endearments  and  mutual  esteem.  Nor  is  their  conduct 
toward  their  relations  and  friends  less  amiable  than  toward  one 
another.  And  such  is  their  condescension,  their  indulgence, 
and  their  beneficence  to  those  below  them,  that  there  is  not  a 
neighbor,  a  tenant,  or  a  servant  who  doth  not  most  gratefully 
bless  the  day  when  Mr.  Jones  was  married  to  his  Sophia. 

I  reserve  for  the  end,  although  Fielding  introduces  it 
at  the  beginning  of  the  last  book,  this 

Farewell  to  the  reader. 

We  are  now,  reader,  arrived  at  the  last  stage  of  our  long 
Simile  of  the  journey.  As  we  have,  therefore,  traveled  together  through  so 
stage  coach.  many  pages,  let  us  behave  to  one  another  like  fellow-travelers 
in  a  stage  coach,  who  have  passed  several  days  in  the  company 
of  each  other ;  and  who,  notwithstanding  any  bickerings  or 
little  animosities  which  may  have  occurred  on  the  road,  gener- 
ally make  all  up  at  last,  and  mount,  for  the  last  time,  into  their 
vehicle  with  cheerfulness  and  good-humor  ;  since  after  this  one 
stage  it  may  possibly  happen  to  us,  as  it  commonly  happens  to 
them,  never  to  meet  more. 

As  I  have  here  taken  up  this  simile,  give  me  leave  to  carry  it 
a  little  farther.  I  intend,  then,  in  this  last  book,  to  imitate  the 
good  company  I  have  mentioned  in  their  last  journey.  Now,  it 
is  well  known  that  all  jokes  and  raillery  are  at  this  time  laid 
aside  ;  whatever  characters  any  of  the  passengers  have  for  the 
jest-sake  personated  on  the  road  are  now  thrown  off,  and  the 
conversation  is  usually  plain  and  serious. 

In  the  same  manner,  if  I  have  now  and  then,  in  the  course  of 


Fielding.  179 

this  work,  indulged  any  pleasantry  for  thy  entertainment,  I 
shall  here  lay  it  down.  The  variety  of  matter,  indeed,  which  I  Variety  of 
shall  be  obliged  to  cram  into  this  book,  will  afford  no  room  for  matter- 
any  of  those  ludicrous  observations  which  I  have  elsewhere 
made,  and  which  may  sometimes,  perhaps,  have  prevented 
thee  from  taking  a  nap  when  it  was  beginning  to  steal  upon 
thee.  In  this  last  book  thou  wilt  find  nothing  (or  at  most  very 
little)  of  that  nature.  All  will  be  plain  narrative  only  ;  and,  in- 
deed, when  thou  hast  perused  the  many  great  events  which  this 
book  will  produce,  thou  wilt  think  the  number  of  pages  con- 
tained in  it  scarce  sufficient  to  tell  the  story. 

And  now,  my  friend,  I  take  this  opportunity  (as  I  shall  have 
no  other)  of  heartily  wishing  thee  well.  If  I  have  been  an 
entertaining  companion  to  thee,  I  promise  thee  it  is  what  I 
have  desired.  If  in  anything  I  have  offended,  it  was  really 
without  any  intention.  Some  things,  perhaps,  here  said  may 
have  hit  thee  or  thy  friends  ;  but  I  do  most  solemnly  declare 

they  were  not  pointed  at  thee  or  them.    I  question  not  but  thou    H.e!?r.ty  wel1' 

n  wishing, 

hast  been  told,  among  other  stones  of  me,   that  thou  wast 

to  travel  with  a  very  scurrilous  fellow ;  but  whoever  told  thee 
so  did  me  an  injury.  No  man  detests  and  despises  scurrility 
more  than  myself;  nor  hath  any  man  more  reason  ;  for  none 
hath  ever  been  treated  with  more  ;  and  what  is  a  very  severe 
fate,  I  have  had  some  of  the  abusive  writings  of  those  very 
men  fathered  upon  me,  who,  in  other  of  their  works,  have 
abused  me  themselves  with  the  utmost  virulence. 

All  these  works,  however,  I  am  well  convinced,  will  be  dead 
long  before  this  page  shall  offer  itself  to  thy  perusal  ;  for  how- 
ever short  the  period  may  be  of  my  own  performances,  they 
will  most  probably  outlive  their  own  infirm  author  and  the 
weakly  productions  of  his  abusive  contemporaries. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Henry  Fielding  (Men  of  Letters  Series). 
Complete  Works  of  Henry  Fielding. 


BOOK  VI. 
GOLDSMITH. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  is   another  figure  of   the  time 
among   the   most  delightful  ;   he   was   born    in  Ireland 

Birth  and  &  . 

parentage.  (which  perhaps  accounts  for  it)  of  Protestant  parents. 
His  father  was  a  clergyman,  his  mother  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  one.  In  Goldsmith's  Dr.  Primrose  we  may 
recognize  the  father  ;  of  his  first  school-teacher,  Thomas 
Byrne,  this  may  answer  as  the  picture  : 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  kne\v  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learnt  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  : 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault  : 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  ; 
'T\vas  certain  lie  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Land  lie  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage  ; 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 

Goldsmith's  Every  biography  of  Goldsmith  is  interesting,  but  we 

London'."  must  postpone  his  acquaintance  to  his  arrival  in  London. 

He  was  twenty-seven  years  and  three  months  old  when 

he  first  set  his  foot  in  London  streets,  and  he  was  to  be 

a  Londoner  and  nothing  else  all  the  rest  of  his  life. 


Goldsmith.  181 


At  that  time,  in  1756,  the  population  of  London  \vas 
about  700,000.  The  reign  of  George  II.,  which  had  London  in  1756. 
already  extended  over  nearly  thirty  years,  was  approach- 
ing its  close.  In  home  politics  what  was  chiefly  inter- 
esting was  the  persistence  in  office  of  the  Duke  of 
Newcastle's  unpopular  ministry — opposed,  however,  by 
Pitt  (afterward  Lord  Chatham),  and  soon  to  give  way 
before  the  genius  of  that  statesman,  and  to  be  succeeded 
by  that  blaze  of  Pitt's  ascendancy  which  makes  the  last 
years  of  George  II.  so  brilliant  a  period  in  British 
annals.  For  Britain  and  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia 
were  already  on  an  understanding  with  each  other,  and 
the  Seven  Years'  War  was  beginning.  Not  till  1757, 
indeed,  when  Pitt  became  prime  minister,  did  the  alli- 
ance begin  to  promise  its  splendid  results — Clive's  con- 
quests in  India,  Wolfe's  in  America,  etc.  Just  at 
present,  while  Newcastle  was  in  power,  things  had  a 
blacker  look.  Byng's  blundering  at  Minorca,  the  all 
but  certain  loss  of  Hanover,  and  the  like — these  were 
the  topics  for  the  700,000  Londoners  ;  unless  they  chose 
to  talk  rather  of  such  matters  nearer  home  as  the 
building  of  the  new  chapel  for  Whitefield  in  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  or  the  opening  of  the  Foundling  Hospital, 
or  the  proposed  taking  down  of  the  old  houses  on 
London  Bridge. 

To  assist  them  to  proper  opinions  on  these  and  all 
other  subjects  there  were  the  London  newspapers — 
daily,  weekly,  and  bi-weekly,  Whig,  Tory,  and  what 

,,"  •  11  r        v      1    •  1         A  busv  time  in 

not  ;  as  well  as  quite  an  abundance  of  critical  journals,  literature. 
reviews,  and  magazines.  For  it  was  beginning  to  be  a 
very  busy  time  in  British  literature.  It  was  no  longer 
on  the  court,  or  on  Whig  and  Tory  ministers,  or  on  the 
casual  patronage  of  noblemen  of  taste,  that  men  of  letters 
depended,  but  on  the  demand  of  the  general  public  of 


1 82    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

readers  and  book-purchasers,  as  it  could  be  ascertained 
and  catered  for  by  booksellers  making  publishing  their 
business.  The  center  of  this  book-trade  was  naturally 
London  ;  and  here,  accordingly,  hanging  on  the  book- 
sellers, and  writing  for  the  newspapers  and  magazines, 
but  with  side  glances  also  to  the  theaters  and  their  man- 
agers, were  now  congregated  such  a  host  of  authors  and 
Authors  con-  critics  by  profession  as  had  never  been  known  in  London 

gregated  in 

London.  before,    many  of  them  now  dismissed  into  oblivion   as 

the  smaller  fry  of  this  Grub  Street  world  of  London  in 
the  latter  days  of  George  II.  Amongst  them  was  John- 
son, then  forty-seven  years  of  age.  The  poet  Young  was 
alive,  in  old  age,  and  at  least  occasionally  in  London  ; 
and  Londoners  confirmed  were  Richardson,  approach- 
ing his  seventieth  year,  with  all  his  novels  published, 
and  Smollett,  not  past  his  thirty-seventh  year,  but  with 
some  of  his  best  novels  published,  and  now  working 
hard  at  histories,  reviews,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  Field- 
ing had  been  dead  two  years,  and  Sterne,  though  some 
years  over  forty,  had  not  yet  been  heard  of.  The  poet 
Collins  was  dying  in  madness  at  Chichester.  Garrick, 
Chesterfield,  Warburton,  Shenstone,  Gray,  Horace  Wai- 
pole,  who  were  alive  in  England,  could  be  and  were  in 
London  if  they  liked.  Burke,  who  was  Goldsmith's 
junior,  was  already  there. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  world  of  British  letters  at 

state  of  the        the  end  of  the  Second  George's  reiq;n.  when  Goldsmith 

world  of  letters.  ° 

came  to  London.  Colley  Gibber  was  laureate,  of  whom 
Johnson  had  written  : 

Great  George's  acts  let  tuneful  Gibber  sing, 
For  nature  formed  the  poet  for  the  king. 

But  Cibber,  who  was  now  eighty-four  years  of  age,  did 
not  live  beyond  1757.  He  was  succeeded  by  William 
Whitehead,  whose  laureateship  extended  from  1757  to 


Goldsmith.  183 


1788.  The  whole  of  Goldsmith's  literary  career,  as  it 
happened,  and  large  portions  also  of  the  lives  of  others 
whom  we  now  associate  with  him,  fell  within  this 
memorable  period. 

For  a  long  time  Goldsmith's  life  in  London  was  one  Hack-work  and 
of  mere  drudgery  and  literary  hack-work.  In  1758  he 
was  living  in  No.  12,  Green  Arbour  Court,  Old  Bailey 
— a  dingy  little  old  square,  approached  from  Farringdon 
Street  by  a  passage  called  Break-Neck  Steps,  now  all 
demolished,  and  surviving  only  in  Washington  Irving' s 
description  of  it  when  he  visited  it  for  Goldsmith's  sake, 
and  found  it  a  colony  of  washerwomen,  and  slovenly 
with  wash-tubs  on  the  pavement  and  clothes  hung  to  dry 
on  lines  from  the  windows. 

About  this  time  he  writes  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  : 

Alas  !  I  have  many  a  fatigue  to  encounter  before  that  happy 
time  arrives  when  your  poor  old  simple  friend  may  again  give  a 
loose  to  the  luxuriance  of  his  nature,  sitting  by  Kilmore  fire- 
side, recount  the  various  adventures  of  a  hard-fought  life,  laugh 
over  the  follies  of  the  day,  join  his  flute  to  your  harpsichord, 
and  forget  that  ever  he  starved  in  those  streets  where  Butler 
and  Otway  starved  before  him. 

It  gives  me  some  pain  to  think  I  am  almost  beginning  the 
world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one.  Though  I  never  had  a  day's  w^rl'inat thirty- 
illness  since  I  saw  you,  I  am  not  that  strong,  active  man  you  one- 
once  knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  conceive  how  much  eight 
years  of  disappointment,  anguish,  and  study  have  worn  me 
clown.  If  I  remember  right,  you  are  seven  or  eight  years  older 
than  me  ;  yet  I  dare  venture  to  say  that,  if  a  stranger  saw  us 
both,  he  would  pay  me  the  honors  of  seniority.  Imagine  to 
yourself  a  pale,  melancholy  visage,  with  two  great  wrinkles 
between  the  eyebrows,  with  an  eye  disgustingly  severe,  and  a 
big  wig  ;  and  you  have  a  perfect  picture  of  my  present  appear- 
ance. ...  I  can  neither  laugh  nor  drink  ;  have  contracted 
a  hesitating,  disagreeable  manner  of  speaking,  and  a  visage 
that  looks  ill-nature  itself;  in  short,  I  have  thought  myself  into 


184    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

a  settled  melancholy  and  an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings 
with  it.  ...  Your  last  letter,  I  repeat  it,  was  too  short ; 
you  should  have  given  me  j-our  opinion  of  the  design  of  the 
heroi-comical  poem  which  I  sent  you.  You  remember  I  intended 
to  introduce  the  hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a  paltry  alehouse. 
You  may  take  the  following  specimen  of  the  manner,  which  I 
flatter  myself  is  quite  original.  The  room  in  which  he  lies  may 
be  described  somewhat  in  this  way  : 

The  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a  ray 

Descri  tion  of  That  feebly  showed  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 

his  room.  The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread  ; 

The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew  ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 

And  Prussia's  monarch  showed  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold  ;  he  views  with  keen  desire 

A  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  ; 

An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scored, 

And  five  cracked  teacups  dressed  the  chimney-board. 

This  letter  was  written  in  February,  1759,  and  within 

A  turn  for  the  ,  ,  .  ,  ,  . 

better.  a  month  or  t\vo  after  that  date  things  took  a  turn  for  the 

better  with  Goldsmith. 

Acquaintances  were  multiplying"  round  him.  Even  in 
his  worst  distress  the  sociable  creature  had  made  him- 
self at  home  with  his  landlord's  family  ;  his  flute  and 
sweetmeats,  when  he  had  them,  were  at  the  service  of 
the  children  of  Green  Arbour  Court,  some  of  whom 
grew  up  to  remember  him  and  tell  anecdotes  of  him  ; 
and  we  hear  of  one  person,  an  ingenious  watchmaker  of 
the  neighborhood,  who  vised  to  spend  evenings  \vith 
him.  Then,  according  to  Thackeray's  observation  that 
there  never  was  an  Irishman  so  low  in  circumstances  but 
there  was  some  Irishman  lower  still  and  looking  up  to 
him  and  going  errands  for  him,  there  were  several 
fellow-countrymen  of  Goldsmith  clinging  to  him,  to  be 
helped  by  him  when  he  could  hardly  help  himself — 


Goldsmith.  185 


especially  a  certain  Ned  Purdon,  who  had  been  his 
schoolfellow.  At  the  Temple  Coffee  House,  also,  there  ^fc"|tral 
were  opportunities  for  something  like  general  society. 
But  in  the  course  of  1759  we  have  more  distinct  traces  of 
Goldsmith's  contact  with  known  men  in  London.  It 
was  in  March  in  that  year,  just  before  the  publication  of 
Goldsmith's  "Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learn- 
ing," that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Percy,  afterward  Bishop  Percy 
of  the  ballads,  paid  that  first  memorable  visit  to  him  in 
Green  Arbour  Court,  the  queer  incidents  of  which  he 
used  afterward  to  describe.  From  that  day  Percy  and 
Goldsmith  were  friends  for  life. 

Garrick's  first  encounter  with  Goldsmith  was  several 
months  later,  and  much  less  pleasant.  The  secretary- 
ship of  the  Society  of  Arts  being  vacant,  Goldsmith  was 
anxious  to  obtain  the  post,  and  waited  on  the  great  actor 
to  solicit  his  vote  and  interest.  Garrick,  it  is  said,  re- 
minded him  of  a  passage  in  his  "  Polite  Learning,"  and 
asked  how  he  could  expect  his  support  after  that.  It 
was  a  passage  in  which,  while  discussing  the  prospects 
of  the  drama,  Goldsmith  had  expressed  rather  sharply 
the  common  complaint  then  made  against  theater  man- 
agers, that  they  neglected  contemporary  talent  and  lived 
on  old  stock-plays  which  cost  them  nothing.  "  Indeed," 
said  he  bluntly,  "I  spoke  my  mind,  and  believe  I  said 
what  was  very  right."  And  so  they  parted  civilly,  and 
it  was  long  before  Garrick  and  Goldsmith  came  really  Garrick  and 

„     .  ,  .          .  .  „     ..  .         .   .       Goldsmith. 

together.  Quite  otherwise  it  was  between  Goldsmith 
and  Smollett.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  these  two,  per- 
haps the  most  strongly  contrasted  humorists  and  men  of 
genius  of  their  day — the  simple,  gentle-hearted,  sweet- 
styled  Irishman,  and  the  bold,  spleneticallv-independent, 
irascible,  richly-inventive,  rough-writing,  but  somber  and 
melancholic  Scotchman — as  knit  together  bv  some  mu- 


1 86    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

tual  regard,  when  Smollett  was  already  in  the  full  bustle 
of  his  fame  and  industry,  and  Goldsmith  struggling  and 
in  need  of  employment.  During  the  whole  of  1759,  as  we 
have  seen,  they  had  been,  to  some  extent,  fellow-work-^ 
men.  And  in  the  end  of  that  year  there  was  a  visit  of 
Smollett,  along  with  the  bookseller  Newbery  of  St. 
Bookseller  Paul's  Churchyard,  to  Goldsmith's  lodgings  in  Green 
Arbour  Court,  which  led  to  important  results. 

Newbery  was  the  famous  printer  in  those  days  of  all 
children's  books,  and  as  it  is  well  known  that  he  em- 
ployed him  for  much  of  his  hack-work,  there  is  a  sort  of 
vague  suspicion  that  Goldsmith  may  have  been  the 
author  of  "  Goody  Two  Shoes." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  in  the  Public  Ledger  that  Goldsmith  made  his 
great  hit.  He  had  been  engaged  by  Newbery  to 
furnish  for  this  newspaper  an  article  of  some  amusing 
kind  twice  a  week,  to  be  paid  for  at  the  rate  of  a  guinea 
per  article.  He  had  already  written  one  or  two  articles 
to  suit,  when  the  idea  struck  him  of  bringing  on  the 
scene  an  imaginary  philosophic  Chinaman,  resident  in  The  Chinaman 

1   .  in  London. 

London  after  long  wanderings  from  home,  and  of 
making  the  adventures  of  this  Chinaman,  and  his  obser- 
vations of  men  and  things  in  the  western  world,  as 
recorded  in  letters  supposed  to  be  written  by  him  to 
friends  in  China,  together  with  the  replies  of  these 
friends,  the  material  for  a  series  of  papers  which  should 
consist  of  character  sketches,  social  satire,  and  whimsi- 
cal reflection  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  connected  by  a 
slight  thread  of  story.  He  had  always  had  a  fancy  for 
China  and  the  Chinese.  This  is  the  style  of  them  : 

Were  we  to  estimate  the  learning  of  the  English  by  the  num- 
ber of  books  that  are  every  day  published  among  them, 
perhaps  no  country,  not  even  China  itself,  could  equal  them  in 
this  particular.  I  have  reckoned  not  less  than  twenty-three  Twenty-three 
new  books  published  in  one  day,  which  upon  computation  new  books  a 
makes  eight  thousand  three  hundred  and  ninety-five  in  one 
year.  Most  of  these  are  not  confined  to  one  single  science,  but 
embrace  the  whole  circle.  History,  politics,  poetry,  mathe- 
matics, metaphysics,  and  the  philosophy  of  nature,  are  all  com- 
prised in  a  manual  not  larger  than  that  in  which  our  children 
are  taught  the  letters.  If,  then,  we  suppose  the  learned  of 
England  to  read  but  an  eighth  part  of  the  works  which  daily 
come  from  the  press  (and  sure  none  can  pretend  to  learning 
upon  less  easy  terms),  at  this  rate  every  scholar  will  read  a 


1 88    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

thousand  books  in  one  year.  From  such  a  calculation  you  may 
conjecture  what  an  amazing  fund  of  literature  a  man  must  be 
possessed  of,  who  thus  reads  three  new  books  every  day,  not 
one  of  which  but  contains  all  the  good  things  that  ever  were 
said  or  written. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  it  happens,  but  the  English  are  not, 
in  reality,  so  learned  as  would  seem  from  this  calculation.  We 

English  lim-  .    ,      ,    ,.  .        .  ,,  ,        .  ,     .. 

itations  and  meet  but  few  who  know  all  arcs  and  sciences  to  perfection ; 
whether  it  is  that  the  generality  are  incapable  of  such  extensive 
knowledge,  or  that  the  authors  of  those  books  are  not  adequate 
instructors.  In  China  the  emperor  himself  takes  cognizance  of 
all  the  doctors  in  the  kingdom  who  profess  authorship.  In 
England  every  man  may  be  an  author  that  can  write  ;  for  they 
have  by  law  a  liberty,  not  only  of  saying  what  they  please,  but 
of  being  also  as  dull  as  they  please.  .  .  . 

When  a  man  has  once  secured  a  circle  of  admirers,  he  may 
be  as  ridiculous  here  as  he  thinks  proper  ;  and  it  all  passes  for 
elevation  of  sentiment  or  learned  absence.  If  he  transgresses 
the  common  forms  of  breeding,  mistakes  even  a  teapot  for  a 
tobacco-box,  it  is  said  that  his  thoughts  are  fixed  on  more 
important  objects  :  to  speak  and  to  act  like  the  rest  of  mankind 
is  to  be  no  greater  than  they.  There  is  something  of  oddity  in 
the  very  idea  of  greatness  ;  for  we  are  seldom  astonished  at  a 
thing  very  much  resembling  ourselves. 

When  the  Tartars  make  a  Lama,  their  first  care  is  to  place 
him  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  temple  :  here  he  is  to  sit  half  con- 
cealed from  view,  to  regulate  the  motion  of  his  hands,  lips,  and 
eyes  ;  but,  above  all,  he  is  enjoined  gravity  and  silence.  This, 
however,  is  but  the  prelude  to  his  apotheosis  :  a  set  of  emis- 
saries are  despatched  among  the  people,  to  cry  up  his  piety, 
gravity,  and  love  of  raw  flesh  ;  the  people  take  them  at  their 
word,  approach  the  Lama,  now  become  an  idol,  with  the  most 
humble  prostration  ;  he  receives  their  addresses  without  mo- 
idol  Lama  an  tion,  commences  a  god,  and  is  ever  after  fed  by  his  priests  with 
the  spoon  of  immortality.  The  same  receipt  in  this  country 
serves  to  make  a  great  man.  The  idol  only  keeps  close,  sends 
out  his  little  emissaries  to  be  hearty  in  his  praise  ;  and  straight, 
whether  statesman  or  author,  he  is  set  down  in  the  list  of  fame, 
continuing  to  be  praised  while  it  is  fashionable  to  praise,  or 
while  he  prudently  keeps  his  minuteness  concealed  from  the 
public. 


Goldsmith.  189 


I  have  visited  many  countries,  and  have  been  in  cities  without 
number,  yet  never  did  I  enter  a  town  which  could  not  produce  Little  great 
ten  or  twelve  of  those  little  great  men  ;  all  fancying  themselves  men> 
known  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  complimenting  each  other 
upon  their  extensive  reputation.  It  is  amusing  enough  when 
two  of  these  domestic  prodigies  of  learning  mount  the  stage  of 
ceremony,  and  give  and  take  praise  from  each  other.  I  have 
been  present  when  a  German  doctor,  for  having  pronounced  a 
panegyric  upon  a  certain  monk,  was  thought  the  most  ingen- 
ious man  in  the  world  ;  till  the  monk  soon  after  divided  this 
reputation  by  returning  the  compliment ;  by  which  means  they 
both  marched  off  with  universal  applause. 

FROM  "THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD." 
The  princes  of  Europe  have  found  out  a  manner  of  rewarding 
their  subjects  who  have  behaved  well,  by  presenting  them  with 
about  two  yards  of  blue  ribband,  which  is  worn  about  the  shoul- 
der. They  who  are  honored  with  this  mark  of  distinction  are 
called  knights,  and  the  king  himself  is  always  the  head  of  the  Order  of 
order.  This  is  a  very  frugal  method  of  recompensing  the  most 
important  services  ;  and  it  is  very  fortunate  for  kings  that  their 
subjects  are  satisfied  with  such  trifling  rewards.  Should  a 
nobleman  happen  to  lose  his  leg  in  a  battle,  the  king  presents 
him  with  two  yards  of  ribband,  and  he  is  paid  for  the  loss  of  his 
limb.  Should  an  embassador  spend  all  his  paternal  fortune 
in  supporting  the  honor  of  his  country  abroad,  the  king  pre- 
sents him  with  two  yards  of  ribband,  which  is  to  be  considered 
as  an  equivalent  to  his  estate.  In  short,  while  an  European 
king  has  a  yard  of  blue  or  green  ribband  left  he  need  be  under 
no  apprehensions  of  wanting  statesmen,  generals,  and  soldiers. 
I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  those  kingdoms  in  which  men 
with  large  patrimonial  estates  are  willing  thus  to  undergo  real 

hardships  for  empty  favors.     A  person,  already  possessed  of  a    . 

Empty  favors. 

competent  fortune,  who  undertakes  to  enter  the  career  of  ambi- 
tion, feels  many  real  inconveniences  from  his  station,  while  it 
procures  him  no  real  happiness  that  he  was  not  possessed  of 
before.  He  could  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  before  he  became  a 
courtier,  as  well,  perhaps  better,  than  when  invested  with  his 
authority.  He  could  command  flatterers  in  a  private  station, 
as  well  as  in  his  public  capacity,  and  indulge  at  home  every 
favorite  inclination,  uncensured  and  unseen  by  the  people. 


1 90    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Observation  of 
Confucius. 


New  books. 


I  look  upon  these  courtiers  as  a  set  of  good-natured,  mis- 
guided people,  who  are  indebted  to  us,  and  not  to  themselves, 
for  all  the  happiness  they  enjoy.  For  our  pleasure,  and  not 
their  own,  they  sweat  under  a  cumbrous  heap  of  finery  ;  for  our 
pleasure,  the  lacquied  train,  the  slow-parading  pageant,  with  all 
the  gravity  of  grandeur,  moves  in  review  :  a  single  coat,  or  a 
single  footman,  answers  all  the  purposes  of  the  most  indolent 
refinement  as  well ;  and  those  who  have  twenty  may  be 
said  to  keep  one  for  their  own  pleasure  and  the  other  nineteen 
merely  for  ours.  So  true  is  the  observation  of  Confucius, 
"That  we  take  greater  pains  to  persuade  others  that  we  are 
happy,  than  in  endeavoring  to  think  so  ourselves." 

But  though  this  desire  of  being  seen,  of  being  made  the  sub- 
ject of  discourse,  and  of  supporting  the  dignities  of  an  exalted 
station,  be  troublesome  enough  to  the  ambitious,  yet  it  is  well 
for  society  that  there  are  men  thus  willing  to  exchange  ease  and 
safety  for  danger  and  a  ribband.  We  lose  nothing  by  their 
vanity,  and  it  would  be  unkind  to  endeavor  to  deprive  a  child 
of  its  rattle.  If  a  duke  or  a  duchess  are  willing  to  carry  a  long 
train  for  our  entertainment,  so  much  the  worse  for  themselves  ; 
if  they  choose  to  exhibit  in  public,  with  a  hundred  lacquies  and 
mamelukes  in  their  equipage,  for  our  entertainment,  still  so 
much  the  worse  for  themselves  ;  it  is  the  spectators  alone  who 
give  and  receive  the  pleasure  ;  they  only  are  the  sweating  fig- 
ures that  swell  the  pageant. 

There  are  numbers  in  this  city  who  live  by  writing  new 
books  ;  and  yet  there  are  thousands  of  volumes  in  every  large 
library  unread  and  forgotten.  This,  upon  my  arrival,  was  one 
of  those  contradictions  which  I  was  unable  to  account  for.  "  Is 
it  possible,"  said  I,  "  that  there  should  be  any  demand  for  new 
books,  before  those  already  published  are  read  ?  Can  there  be 
so  many  employed  in  producing  a  commodity  with  which  the 
market  is  already  overstocked — and  with  goods  also  better 
than  any  of  modern  manufacture  ? " 

What  at  first  view  appeared  an  inconsistence  is  a  proof  at 
once  of  this  people's  wisdom  and  refinement.  Even  allowing 
the  works  of  their  ancestors  better  written  than  theirs,  yet  those 
of  the  moderns  acquire  a  real  value  by  being  marked  with  the 
impression  of  the  times.  Antiquity  has  been  in  the  possession 
of  others  ;  the  present  is  our  own  :  let  us  first,  therefore,  learn 


Goldsmith.  191 


to  know  what  belongs  to  ourselves  and  then,  if  we  have  leisure, 
cast  our  reflections  back  to  the  reign  of  Shonou,  who  governed 
twenty  thousand  years  before  the  creation  of  the  moon. 

The  volumes  of  antiquity,  like  medals,  may  very  well  serve 
to  amuse  the  curious  ;  but  the  works  of  the  moderns,  like  the  Modern  and 

-      ...  .    .  -  ,.  ancient  works 

current  coin  of  a  kingdom,  are  much  better  lor  immediate  use  :  compared, 
the  former  are  often  prized  above  their  intrinsic  value,  and 
kept  with  care  ;  the  latter  seldom  pass  for  more  than  they  are 
worth,  and  are  often  subject  to  the  merciless  hands  c*f  sweating 
critics  and  clipping  compilers  :  the  works  of  antiquity  are  ever 
praised,  those  of  the  moderns  read  :  the  treasures  of  our 
ancestors  have  our  esteem,  and  we  boast  the  passion  ;  those  of 
contemporary  genius  engage  our  heart,  although  we  blush  to 
own  it.  The  visits  we  pay  the  former  resemble  those  we  pay 
the  great — the  ceremony  is  troublesome,  and  yet  such  as  we 
would  not  choose  to  forego  :  our  acquaintance  with  modern 
books  is  like  sitting  with  a  friend — our  pride  is  not  flattered  in 
the  interview,  but  it  gives  more  internal  satisfaction. 

In  proportion  as  society  refines,  new  books  must  ever  be- 
come more  necessary.      Savage  rusticity  is  reclaimed  by  oral 
admonition  alone  ;  but  the  elegant  excesses  of  refinement  are 
best  corrected  by  the  still  voice  of  studious  inquiry.     In  a 
polite  age  almost  every  person  becomes  a  reader,  and  receives 
more  instruction  from  the  press  than  the  pulpit.     The  preach-   The  press  and 
ing  bonze  may  instruct  the  illiterate  peasant;  but  nothing  less      ePuP11- 
than  the  insinuating  address  of  a  fine  writer  can  win  its  way  to 
an  heart  already  relaxed  in  all  the  effeminacy  of  refinement. 

Instead,  then,  of  thinking  the  number  of  new  publications 
here  too  great,  I  could  wish  it  still  greater,  as  they  are  the 
most  useful  instruments  of  reformation.  Every  country  must 
be  instructed  either  by  writers  or  preachers  ;  but  as  the 
number  of  readers  increases,  the  number  of  hearers  is  pro- 
portionally diminished  ;  the  writer  becomes  more  useful  and 
the  preaching  bonze  less  necessary. 

"  The  Citizen  of  the  World"  was  published  complete 
in  1762,  and  Goldsmith  received  five  guineas  for  the  new 
copyright. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

GOLDSMITH'S  receipts  at  this  time,  and  chiefly  from 
Goldsmith's        Newberv,  may  be  calculated  at  what  would  be  equiva- 

receipts.  * 

lent  now  to  about  ^250  or  ^300  a  year  ;  and,  though 
he  was  generally  on  the  debtor  side  in  Newbery's  books, 
for  work  paid  for  in  part  beforehand,  there  is  yet  evi- 
dence that  the  Goldsmith  of  Wine  Office  Court  was, 
socially,  in  a  different  plight  from  the  Goldsmith  of 
Green  Arbour  Square.  Not  only  does  he  frequent  the 
theaters  and  taverns,  attend  meetings  of  the  Society  of 
Arts,  and  drop  in  on  Monday  evenings  at  the  famous 
Robin  Hood  Debating  Society  in  Butcher  Row,  he  even 
"receives"  in  his  own  lodging,  is  sponged  upon  there 
for  guineas  and  half-guineas  by  rascals  that  know  his 
good-nature,  and  sometimes  gives  literary  suppers.  One 
such  supper,  given  by  him  in  Wine  Office  Court,  is 
memorable.  It  was  on  the  3ist  of  May,  1761.  Whether 
Meeting  with  Johnson  had  met  Goldsmith  before  is  uncertain  ;  most 
probably  he  had,  for  the  author  of  the  "  Inquiry  into 
Polite  Learning"  and  the  "Chinese  Letters"  can  hardly 
have  remained  a  stranger  to  him  ;  but  this,  at  all  events, 
was  their  first  meeting  not  merely  casual.  Johnson  had 
accepted  Goldsmith's  invitation  to  meet  a  party  of 
friends,  and  Percy  was  to  accompany  him.  As  the  two 
were  walking  to  Wine  Office  Court,  Percy  observed,  to 
his  surprise,  that  Johnson  had  on  "a  new  suit  of 
clothes,"  with  "a  new  wig  nicely  powdered,"  and 
everything  in  style  to  match.  Struck  with  such  a  varia- 
tion from  Johnson's  usual  habits,  he  ventured  a  remark 


Goldsmith.  193 


on  the  subject.  "Why,  sir,"  said  Johnson  in  reply,  "  I 
hear  that  Goldsmith,  who  is  a  very  great  sloven,  justifies 
his  disregard  of  cleanliness  and  decency  by  quoting  my 
practice,  and  I  am  desirous  this  night  to  show  him  a 
better  example."  And  so  the  two  went  in,  and  the 
door  was  shut  behind  them  and  the  others  ;  and  there 
was,  no  doubt,  much  noise  and  splendid  talk  far  into  the 
night  ;  but  it  has  not  been  reported,  for  there  was  no 
Boswell  there. 

From  that  day  began  the  immortal  intimacy  of  the 
gentle  Goldsmith  with  the  great  Johnson,  and  all  that 
peculiar  radiance  over  the  London  of  the  eighteenth 
century  which  we  still  trace  to  the  conjunction  of  their 
figures  in  its  antique  streets.  Of  only  three  of  his  con- 
temporaries in  the  English  world  of  letters  had  Gold- 
smith written  with  admiration  approaching  to  enthusiasm 
— Smollett,  the  poet  Gray,  and  Johnson.  A  recluse  at 
Cambridge,  Gray  was  inaccessible.  With  Smollett  an 
acquaintance  had  already  been  established  ;  but  the  Goldsmith's 

intimates. 

resident  London  life  of  the  overworked  and  melancholic 
novelist  was  nearly  over,  and  he  was  about  to  be  a 
wanderer  thenceforth  in  search  of  health.  But  at  last 
Goldsmith  had  happened  on  that  most  massive  and  cen- 
tral of  the  three,  toward  whom  in  any  case  all  intel- 
lectual London  consciously  or  unconsciously  gravitated. 
Johnson  was  then  in  his  fifty-second  year,  living  in 
chambers  in  Inner  Temple  Lane — not  yet  "Dr.,"  and 
not  yet  pensioned,  though  on  the  point  of  being  so  ;  but 
already  witli  much  of  his  greatest  work  done,  and  firm 
in  his  literary  dictatorship.  Goldsmith  was  nineteen 
years  younger,  and  with  the  best  of  his  work  before 
him. 

This  acquaintance  with  Johnson  led  to  his  introduction 
to  Reynolds  (not  yet  Sir  Joshua),  then  forty  years  of  age, 


194    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

living  in  his  mansion  in  Leicester  Square,  and  hospita- 
Rehnoids  ^le,  w*tn  ^s  kind  serenity  of  attached  disposition  and  his 

,£6,000  a  year,  to  the  largest  circle  of  friends  that  any 
man  ever  drew  around  him.  To  these  occasions  Gold- 
smith was  certainly  welcome.  Here  he  would  meet 
Edmund  Burke,  who  barely  remembered  him  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin  ;  and  sometimes  he  and  Johnson,  leav- 
ing Reynolds' s,  and  parting  with  Burke  at  the  door, 
would  go  down  the  Strand  to  Johnson's  chambers  in 
Inner  Temple  Lane,  or  perhaps  (for,  as  we  know, 
Johnson  hated  early  hours)  drop  in  for  more  talk  at  the 
Mitre  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street. 

The  Mitre  ^n  t^ie  s*te  °*  J°hnson's  Mitre  Tavern  stands  Hoare's 

Tavern.  Bank,  which  dates  from  1680  ;  the  sign  of  the  Golden 

Bottle,  still  preserved  over  the  door  (a  leathern  bottle 
such  as  was  used  by  haymakers  for  their  ale),  represents 
the  flask  carried  by  the  founder  when  he  came  up  to 
London  to  seek  his  fortune. 

It  was  either  at  some  now  unknown  lodging  in  town, 
occupied  for  some  little  time,  or,  more  probably,  at  the 
Islington  apartments  in  Mrs.  Fleming's  house,  that 
there  occurred  late  in  1764  an  incident  in  Goldsmith's 
life  of  which  very  varying  versions  have  been  given,  but 
of  which  the  true  account  is  indubitably  Dr.  Johnson's. 

I  received  one  morning  [Johnson  long  afterward  told  Bos- 
well]  a  message  from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  dis- 
tress, and,  as  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging 
that  I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a 
guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him  directly.  I  accordingly 
went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his  landlady  had 
arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion. 
I  perceived  that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea,  and  had 
got  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put  the  cork 
into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to 
him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then 


Goldsmith,  195 


told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  pro- 
duced to  me.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit ;  told  the  land- 
lady I  would  soon  return  ;  and,  having  gone  to  a  bookseller, 
sold  it  for  ^60.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  dis- 
charged his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone 
for  having  used  him  so  ill. 

This  was  the  manuscript  of  ' '  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. ' '  .<  The  Vicar  of 
At  this  very  time  he  had  another  thing  by  him,  written  Wakefield-" 
for  his  own  pleasure,  and  according  to  his  own  best  ideas 
of  literary  art.  This  was  his  poem  of  "  The  Traveller," 
the  idea  of  which  had  occurred  to  him  nine  years  before, 
during  his  own  continental  wanderings,  and  some  frag- 
ments of  which  he  had  then  written  and  sent  home  from 
Switzerland  to  his  brother  Henry.  On  this  poem,  as 
well  as  on  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  he  had  been  for 
some  time  engaged  in  his  Islington  lodgings,  writing  it 
slowly  and  bringing  it  to  the  last  degree  of  finish,  but  so 
diffident  of  its  success  as  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  his 
friends.  Reynolds,  indeed,  once  visiting  him,  found 
him  bending  over  something  at  his  desk,  and  at  the 
same  time  holding  up  his  finger  in  rebuke  every  now 
and  then  to  a  little  dog  he  was  teaching  to  sit  on  its 
haunches  in  a  corner  of  the  room  ;  and,  on  looking  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  manuscript,  he  could  see  that  it  was  a 
poem,  and  was  able  to  read  and  remember  one  couplet. 
At  length,  probably  at  the  very  time  of  Johnson's  visit  of 
rescue,  Goldsmith  took  Johnson  into  his  confidence  in 
the  matter  of  the  poem  too.  It  was  highly  approved  by 
that  judge,  who  even  added  a  line  or  two  of  his  own  ; 
the  elder  Newbery,  who  may  already  have  been  spoken 
to  about  it,  jdid  not  mind  promising  twenty  guineas  for 
it  ;  and  on  the  igth  of  December,  1764,  it  was  pub- 
lished, price  one  shilling  and  sixpence,  with  this  title,  "T^Travei- 
"  A  Traveller  ;  or  a  Prospect  of  Society  :  A  Poem.  By  ler-" 


196    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  M.  B."  It  was  the  first  publication 
of  Goldsmith's  that  bore  his  name,  and  it  was  dedicated, 
in  terms  of  beautiful  affection,  to  his  brother,  the  Rev. 
Henry  Goldsmith. 

The  publication  of  ' '  The  Traveller ' '  was  an  epoch  in 
in  his  life.  Goldsmith's  life.     Now  at  last,  at  the  age  of  six-and- 

thirty,  he  stood  forth,  not  as  an  essayist,  compiler,  and 
anonymous  prose-humorist,  but  avowedly  as  a  candidate 
for  those  higher  and  finer  honors  that  belong  to  the 
name  of  English  poet. 

As  by  his  "Traveller"  Goldsmith  had  taken  his 
place  among  English  poets,  so  by  "  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field  "  he  took  a  place,  if  not  as  one  of  the  remark- 
able group  of  English  novelists  that  distinguished  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  at  least  with  peculiar 
conspicuousness  near  that  group.  Richardson  had  been 
five  years  dead  ;  Fielding  twelve  years  ;  only  Smollett 
of  the  old  three  remained,  with  his  "  Humphry  Clinker" 
still  to  be  written.  How  simple  this  "Vicar  of  Wake- 
field"  was,  how  humorous,  how  pathetic,  how  graceful 
in  its  manner,  how  humane  in  every  pulse  of  its  mean- 
Popularity  of  ing,  how  truly  and  deeplv  good  !  So  said  evervbody  ; 

"The  Vicar  of  &)  ,       „       .  ,  ,        ,    . 

Wakefieid."  and  gradually  into  that  world  01  imaginary  scenes  and 
beings  made  familiar  to  British  readers  by  former  works 
of  fiction,  and  the  latest  additions  to  which  had  been 
Smollett's  and  Sterne's  inventions,  a  place  of  especial 
regard  was  found  for  the  ideal  Wakefieid,  the  Primrose 
family,  and  all  their  belongings. 

Everybody,  even  in  our  time,  has  read,  or  must  read, 
"The  Vicar  of  Wakefieid  "  ;  but  I  select  some  passages 
as  pictures  of  the  period,  especially  those  that  give  an 
idea  of  simple  country  life  as  contrasted  with  the  city 
manners  of  Evelina's  friends  given  later. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neighborhood,  consist- 
ing of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own  grounds  and  were  equal 
strangers  to  opulence  and  poverty.  As  they  had  almost  all  the  The  vicar  de- 
conveniences  of  life  within  themselves,  they  seldom  visited  home8.8 
towns  or  cities  in  search  of  superfluity.  Remote  from  the 
polite,  they  still  retained  the  primeval  simplicity  of  manners  ; 
and,  frugal  by  habit,  they  scarce  knew  that  temperance  was  a 
virtue.  They  wrought  with  cheerfulness  on  days  of  labor,  but 
observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  and  pleasure.  They 
kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent  true  love-knots  on  Valentine 
morning,  ate  pancakes  on  Shrovetide,  showed  their  wit  on  the 
first  of  April,  and  religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas  eve. 
Being  apprised  of  our  approach,  the  whole  neighborhood  came 
out  to  meet  their  minister,  dressed  in  their  finest  clothes,  and 
preceded  by  a  pipe  and  tabor.  A  feast  also  was  provided  for 
our  reception,  at  which  we  sat  cheerfully  down  ;  and  what  the 
conversation  wanted  in  wit  was  made  up  in  laughter. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws  was  regulated  in  the 
following  manner  :  By  sunrise  we  all  assembled  in  our  com-  iVuie^epubHc. 
mon  apartment,  the  fire  being  previously  kindled  by  the  serv- 
ant. After  we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony 
— for  I  always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechanical  forms  of 
good  breeding,  without  which  freedom  ever  destroys  friend- 
ship— we  all  bent  in  gratitude  to  that  Being  who  gave  us 
another  day.  This  duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went 
to  pursue  our  usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and  daugh- 
ters employed  themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which  was 
always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I  allowed  half  an  hour  for  this 
meal,  and  an  hour  for  dinner  ;  which  time  was  taken  up  in 
innocent  mirth  between  my  wife  and  daughters,  and  in  philo- 
sophical arguments  between  my  son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued  our  labors 
after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned  home   to  the  expecting 


198    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

family,  where  smiling  looks,  a  neat  hearth,  and  pleasant  fire 
were  prepared  for  our  reception.  Nor  were  we  without  guests  : 
sometimes  farmer  Flamborough,  our  talkative  neighbor,  and 
often  the  blind  piper,  would  pay  us  a  visit,  and  taste  our  goose- 
berry wine,  for  the  making  of  which  we  had  lost  neither  the 
receipt  nor  the  reputation.  These  harmless  people  had  several 
ways  of  being  good  company  ;  while  one  played  the  other 
would  sing  some  soothing  ballad — Johnny  Armstrong's  "Last 
Good-Night,"  or  "The  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen."  The  night 
was  concluded  in  the  manner  we  began  the  morning,  my 
youngest  boys  being  appointed  to  read  the  lessons  of  the  day  ; 
and  he  that  read  loudest,  distinctest,  and  best  was  to  have  a 
halfpenny  on  Sunday  to  put  into  the  poor's  box. 
When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  finery,  which  all 

Sunday  a  day  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  restrain.  How  well  soever  I 
fancied  my  lectures  against  pride  had  conquered  the  vanity  of 
my  daughters,  yet  I  still  found  them  secretly  attached  to  all 
their  former  finery  ;  they  still  loved  laces,  ribbands,  bugles,  and 
catgut ;  my  wife  herself  retained  a  passion  for  her  crimson 
paduasoy,  because  I  formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday,  in  particular,  their  behavior  served  to- 
mortify  me.  I  had  desired  my  girls  the  preceding  night  to  be 
dressed  early  the  next  day  ;  for  I  always  loved  to  be  at  church 
a  good  while  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  They  punc- 
tually obeyed  my  directions  ;  but  when  we  were  to  assemble  in 
the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  came  my  wife  and  daughters 
dressed  out  in  all  their  former  splendor,  their  hair  plastered  up- 
with  pomatum,  their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains  bundled 
•  up  in  a  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  their  vanity,  particularly  that  of  my  wife,  from 
whom  I  expected  more  discretion.  In  this  exigence,  therefore, 
my  only  resource  was  to  order  my  son,  with  an  important  air, 
to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were  amazed  at  the  command ; 

reproved.  but  I  repeated  it  with  more  solemnity  than  before.     "Surely, 

my  dear,  you  jest,"  cried  my  wife;  "we  can  walk  it  perfectly 
well:  we  want  no  coach  to  carry  us  no\v." — "You  mistake, 
child,"  returned  I,  "we  do  want  a  coach;  for  if  we  walk  to- 
church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  in  the  parish  will  hoot 
after  us." — "Indeed,"  replied  my  wife,  "I  always  imagined 
that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  seeing  his  children  neat  and  hand- 
some about  him." — "  You  may  be  as  neat  as  you  please,"  in- 


Goldsmith.  199 


terrupted  I,  "  and  I  shall  love  you  the  better  for  it ;  but  all  this 
is  not  neatness,  but  frippery.  These  rufflings  and  pinkings  and 
patchings  will  only  make  us  hated  by  all  the  wives  of  our 
neighbors.  No,  my  children,"  continued  I,  more  gravely, 
"those  gowns  may  be  altered  into  something  of  a  plainer  cut ; 
for  finery  is  very  unbecoming  in  us,  who  want  the  means  of 
decency.  I  do  not  know  whether  such  flouncing  and  shredding 
is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider,  upon  a  moderate 
calculation,  that  the  nakedness  of  the  indigent  world  might  be 
clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain." 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect  :  they  went  with 
great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to  change  their  dress  ;  and  Change  of 
the  next  day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  my  daughters,  at 
their  own  request,  employed  in  cutting  up  their  trains  into 
Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the  two  little  ones  ;  and, 
what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the  gowns  seemed  improved 
by  this  curtailing. 

There  were  a  couple  of  soi-disant  fine  ladies  from  the 
town,  whose  arrival  had  rather  turned  the  heads  of  the 
ladies  of  the  vicar's  family.  Through  their  influence 

the  sun  was  dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin  without  doors, 
and  the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion  within.  My  wife  ob- 
served that  rising  too  early  would  hurt  her  daughters'  eyes, 
that  working  after  dinner  would  redden  their  noses  ;  and  she 
convinced  me  that  the  hands  never  looked  so  white  as  when 
they  did  nothing.  Instead  therefore  of  finishing  George's  shirts, 
we  now  had  them  new-modeling  their  old  gauzes  or  flour- 
ishing upon  catgut.  The  poor  Miss  Flamboroughs,  their  for- 
mer gay  companions,  were  cast  off  as  mean  acquaintance,  and 
the  whole  conversation  ran  upon  high  life,  and  high-lived  com- 
pany, with  pictures,  taste,  Shakespeare,  and  the  musical  glasses. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a  visit  at  neighbor 
Flamborough's,  found  that  family  had  lately  got  their  pictures 
drawn  by  a  limner,  who  traveled  the  country  and  took  like-  traits. 
nesses  for  fifteen  shillings  a  head.  As  this  family  and  ours  had 
long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our  spirit  took  the  alarm 
.at  this  stolen  march  upon  us  ;  and,  notwithstanding  all  I  could 


2oo    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

say,  and  I  said  much,  it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have  our 
pictures  done  too. 

Having,  therefore,  engaged  the  limner — for  what  could  I  do  ? 
—our  next  deliberation  was  to  show  the  superiority  of  our  taste 
in  the  attitudes.  As  for  our  neighbor's  family,  there  were  seven 
of  them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges — a  thing 
quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in  life,  no  composition  in  the 
world.  We  desired  to  have  something  in  a  brighter  style  ;  and, 
after  many  debates,  at  length  came  to  a  unanimous  resolution 
of  being  drawn  together,  in  one  large  historical  family  piece. 
This  would  be  cheaper,  since  one  frame  would  serve  for  all, 
and  it  would  be  infinitely  more  genteel ;  for  all  families  of  any 
taste  were  now  drawn  in  the  same  manner.  As  we  did  not 
immediately  recollect  an  historical  subject  to  hit  us,  we  were 
contented  each  with  being  drawn  as  independent  historical 
figures.  My  wife  desired  to  be  represented  as  Venus,  and  the 
hi'stodcaient  painter  was  desired  not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her 
pictures.  stomacher  and  hair.  Her  two  little  ones  were  to  be  as  Cupids 

by  her  side  ;  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band,  was  to  present  her 
with  my  books  on  the  Whistonian  controversy.  Olivia  would  be 
drawn  as  an  Amazon,  sitting  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  dressed 
in  a  green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a  whip  in  her 
hand.  Sophia  was  to  be  a  shepherdess,  with  as  many  sheep 
as  the  painter  could  put  in  for  nothing ;  and  Moses  was  to  be 
dressed  out  with  a  hat  and  white  feather.  Our  taste  so  much 
pleased  the  Squire  that  he  insisted  on  being  put  in  as  one  of  the 
family,  in  the  character  of  Alexander  the  Great,  at  Olivia's 
feet.  This  was  considered  by  us  all  as  an  indication  of  his 
desire  to  be  introduced  into  the  family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his 
request.  The  painter  was  therefore  set  to  work,  and,  as  he 
wrought  with  assiduity  and  expedition,  in  less  than  four  days 
the  whole  was  completed.  The  piece  was  large,  and,  it  must 
be  owned,  he  did  not  spare  his  colors  ;  for  which  my  wife  gave 
him  great  encomiums.  We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his 
thYpfcture.0  performance  ;  but  an  unfortunate  circumstance  which  had  not 
occurred  till  the  picture  was  finished  now  struck  us  with  dis- 
may. It  was  so  very  large  that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house 
to  fix  it.  How  we  all  came  to  disregard  so  material  a  point  is 
inconceivable  ;  but  certain  it  is,  we  had  been  all  greatly  remiss. 
The  picture,  therefore,  instead  of  gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we 
hoped,  leaned,  in  a  most  mortifying  manner,  against  the  kitchen 


Goldsmith.  201 


wall,  where  the  canvas  was  stretched  and  painted,  much  too 
large  to  be  got  through  any  of  the  doors,  and  the  jest  of  all  our 
neighbors.  One  compared  it  to  Robinson  Crusoe's  long-boat, 
too  large  to  be  removed  ;  another  thought  it  more  resembled  a 
reel  in  a  bottle  ;  some  wondered  how  it  could  be  got  out,  but 
still  more  were  amazed  how  it  ever  got  in. 

And  so  on  ;  but  enough.  The  story  is  too  pathetic, 
and  moreover  too  familiar,  to  find  a  place  here — like 
Goldsmith's  own  story,  which  I  have  dealt  with  only  in 
explanation  of  my  extracts,  and  in  connection  with  the 
men  of  his  time. 

In  1774  Goldsmith  had  come  to  the  end  of  some  years 
of  labor  in  compiling  ;  and  now,  if  ever,  was  the  time  for  in  compiling.* 
carrying  into  effect  the  resolution,  to  which  he  had  been 
persuading  himself,  of  retiring  permanently  into  some 
quiet  part  of  the  country  and  coming  to  London  only 
for  two  months  every  year.  But,  in  fact,  either  to  go  or 
stay  would  have  been  difficult  for  him.  All  his  resources 
were  gone  ;  his  feet,  as  he  walked  in  the  streets,  were  in 
a  meshwork  of  debt,  to  the  extent  of  about  ,£2,000  ; 
and  all  that  he  could  look  forward  to,  with  any  promise 
of  relief  in  it,  was  the  chance  of  a  new  stretch  of  some 
ten  thousand  acres  of  additional  hack-work  and  com- 
pilation, for  some  bookseller  who  would  not  mind  pre- 
paying for  the  labor  in  part. 

He  went  in  "March,  for  a  week  or  two,  to  his  retreat  at 
Hyde  on  the  Edgeware  Road,  when  an  attack  of  a  local 
complaint  to  which  he  had  for  some  time  been  subject 
brought  him  back  to  his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  The 
immediate  illness  passed  off,  but  a  kind  of  nervous  fever 
followed  ;  doctors  were  sent  for,  but  without  avail. 
"Your  pulse,"  said  one  of  them  to  the  patient,  "is  in 
greater  disorder  than  it  should  be  from  the  state  of  your 
fever  :  is  your  mind  at  ease?  "  "  It  is  not,"  said  Gold- 


2O2     Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

smith.  And  so,  with  varying  symptoms,  he  lay  on  in 
his  chambers  in  Brick  Court  till  Monday,  the  4th  of 
April,  1774,  on  which  day  it  was  known  through  town 
His  death.  that  Goldsmith  was  dead.  He  died  at  half-past  four  that 
morning  in  strong  convulsions. 

When  Burke  was  told  the  news,  he  burst  into  tears. 
When  Reynolds  was  told  it,  he  left  his  painting-room, 
where  he  then  was,  and  did  no  more  work  that  day. 
How  Johnson  was  affected  at  the  moment  we  can  only 
guess  ;  but  three  months  afterward  he  wrote  as  follows 
to  Bennet  Langton,  in  Lincolnshire  : 

Chambers,  you  find,  is  gone  far,  and  poor  Goldsmith  is  gone 
much  farther.  He  died  of  a  fever,  exasperated,  as  I  believe, 
by  the  fear  of  distress.  He  raised  money  and  squandered  it 
by  every  artifice  of  acquisition  and  folly  of  expense.  But  let 
not  his  frailties  be  remembered  ;  he  was  a  very  great  man. 

When  Goldsmith  died  he  was  forty-five  years  and  five 
months  old.  His  body  was  buried,  on  the  gth  of  April, 
in  the  burying-ground  of  the  Temple  Church.  The 
monument  to  him  in  Westminster  Abbey,  with  the  Latin 
inscription  by  Johnson,  was  erected  in  1776. 

In  the  Temple  Church  there  is  a  modern  monument 
to  Oliver  Goldsmith  erected  in  1860. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  epitaph  for  him  is  : 

Scott,s  The  wreath  of  Goldsmith  is  unsullied  ;  he  wrote  to  exalt  vir- 

epitaph.  tue  and  expose  vice  ;  and  he  accomplished  his  task  in  a  manner 

which  raises  him  to  the  highest  rank  among  British  authors. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Goldsmith's  Complete  Works,  with  memoir  by  David  Mas- 
son. 

Oliver  Goldsmith.  William  Black.  (English  Men  of  Letters.) 
Biography  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.     Washington  Irving. 
Famous  Plays.     J.  F.  Molloy.     (London,  1886.) 


BOOK  VII. 
HORACE  WALPOLE  AND  GRAY. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  correspondence  of  Horace  Walpole  is  a  great 
mine  of  facts  and  fancies,  too  extensive  to  explore  for  spondence". 
any  one  without  ample  leisure  and  strong  inclination  to 
the  task.  These  letters  were  pronounced  by  Walter 
Scott  to  be  the  best  in  our  language,  and  Lord  Byron  de- 
clared them  to  be  incomparable.  Since  these  verdicts, 
the  collections  of  letters  by  Walpole  that  were  known  to 
Scott  and  Byron  have  received  the  addition  of  several 
others,  published  at  different  times,  besides  many  sepa- 
rate letters  which  have  come  to  light.  The  total  num- 
ber of  Walpole' s  published  letters  cannot  now  fall  much 
short  of  three  thousand  ;  the  earliest  of  these  is  dated 
in  November,  1735,  the  latest  in  January,  1797.  Thus 
we  see  that  the  correspondence  extends  nearly  over  our 
period.  Throughout  all  these  sixty  years,  the  writer,  to  Its  extent- 
use  his  own  phrase,  lived  always  in  the  big,  busy  world, 
and  whatever  there  passed  before  him,  his  restless  fingers, 
restless  even  when  stiffened  by  the  gout,  recorded  and 
commented  on  for  the  amusement  of  his  correspondents. 
It  is  a  serious  piece  of  work  to  attack  this  mass  of  nar- 
rative and  description,  anecdotes  and  criticisms,  and 
very  much  of  it  is  irrelevant  to  our  purpose,  and  has 
ceased  to  be  interesting. 

Mr.  Seeley's  excellent,  and  not  too  large,  book  gives 
admirable  selections  from  the  letters,  with  reference  to 


204    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

just  those  things  that  are  interesting  to  my  subject,  and 
it  is  from  his  careful  selections  that  I  further  condense. 

Horace  Walpole  was  born  on  the  24th  of  September, 
Birth  and  1717,  the  vounofest  son  of  the  foremost  Englishman  of 

parentage.  '     '  ' 

his  time,  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  Walpole  tells  us  that  in 
the  first  years  of  his  life  he  was  much  indulged  both  by 
his  mother  and  Sir  Robert,  being  a  delicate  child  ;  and 
he  relates  the  story  of  being  carried,  on  account  of  his 
longing  to  see  the  king,  to  St.  James's  to  kiss  the  hand 
of  George  I.,  just  before  His  Majesty  began  his  last 
journey  to  Hanover.  He  was  sent  to  Eton  and  from 
there  to  King's  College,  Cambridge.  As  soon  as  he 
became  of  age  he  was  put  in  the  possession  of  a  hand- 
some income,  from  several  purely  sinecure  offices  pro- 
cured for  him  by  his  father,  all  capable  of  being  executed 
by  deputy,  and  leaving  him  with  plenty  of  money  and 
nothing  to  do. 

Thus  at  leisure,  he  set  out  on  the  continental  tour 
Traveling  with  which  was  then  considered  indispensable  for  a  man  of 
fashion.  His  companion  was  the  poet  Gray,  with  whom 
Walpole  then  formed  a  friendship  which  lasted  through 
their  lives,  in  spite  of  the  interruption  caused  by  a 
slight  dissension  that  came  up  between  them  in  travel- 
ing, as  so  often  happens  in  the  midst  of  the  fatigues  of 
journeys. 

Walpole  took  his  seat  in  Parliament,  and  delivered  his 
maiden  speech  in  1742,  but  it  cloee  not  appear  that  he 
acquired  any  reputation  in  debate.  His  constant  attend- 
ance at  the  House  had  the  chief  merit,  it  would  seem, 
for  furnishing  material  for  his  correspondence,  and  the 
same  may  be  said  for  his  wide  acquaintance  with  fash- 
ionable society. 

During  his  active  life  the  war  of  parties  was  largely 
carried  on  by  anonymous  pamphlets,  and  Walpole  gave 


Horace  \ValpoIe  and  Gray.  205 

powerful  help  in  this  way  to  the  subjects  which  aroused 
his  interest. 

But  he  found  in  art  and  literature  his  chief  employ-    , 

"      J       Art  and  htera- 

ment.      He  read  widely,  especially  in  the  line  of  history   ture  his  chief 

J  J      employment. 

and  archaeology,  and  thus  developed  a  passion  for  col- 
lecting and  imitating  antiquities  and  curiosities  of  all 
kinds.  For  this  he  had  means  and  leisure,  as  his  duties, 
for  instance  as  Usher  of  the  Exchequer,  were  nominally 
to  shut  the  gates  of  the  Exchequer,  and  to  provide  the 
Exchequer  and  Treasury  with  the  paper,  parchment, 
pens,  ink,  sand,  wax,  tape,  and  other  articles  of  the  sort 
used  in  their  department. 

His  chief  amusement  for  many  years  was  the  erection 
and  adornment  of  his  villa  at  Twickenham,  an  eccentric 
little  building  on  the  Thames,  in  which  he  gathered  a 
collection  of  pictures  and  all  sorts  of  curiosities.  He 
called  it  Strawberry  Hill. 

He  bought  the  place  with  only  a  cottage  on  it  from 
Mrs.  Ghenevix,  who  kept  a  fashionable  toy-shop,  and  he 
writes  : 

It's  a  little  plaything  house  that  I  got  out  of  Mrs.  Chenevix's    vj]la  at 
shop,  and  is  the  prettiest  bauble  that  ever  you  saw.     It  is  set  in    Twickenham, 
enameled  meadows,  with  filagree  hedges  : 

A  small  Euphrates  through  the  piece  is  rolled, 

And  little  finches  wave  their  wings  in  gold. 

Walpole  had  acquired  in  his  antiquarian  research  a 
fatal  fondness  for  Gothic  architecture  ;  but  his  zeal  was 
not  according  to  much  knowledge,  not  guided  by  a  very 
pure  taste.  The  cottage  grew  into  a  strange  nondescript 
edifice,  half  castle,  half  cloister,  still  small  in  its  propor- 
tions, with  all  kinds  of  grotesque  decorations,  with  a 
library,  refectory,  gallery,  round  tower,  hexagon  closet 
— titles  to  make  the  mouth  water  of  an  Ann  Radcliffe. 
In  a  small  cloister,  outside  the  house,  stood  the  blue 


206    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

and  white  china  bowl  in  which  Walpole's  cat  was  really 
drowned,  so  worthily  celebrated  by  Gray's  poem. 

The  buildings  were  not  solid  in  construction,  and  to 
this  day  their  "ginger-bread  Gothic"  and  "pie-crust 
battlements ' '  are  subjects  for  ridicule,  but  I  think  it  was 
charming  of  Walpole  to  amuse  himself  exactly  as  he 
pleased  in  the  matter  of  building  him  a  house,  without 
the  slightest  deference  to  his  neighbor's  opinions  or  any 
feeling  that  he  must  be  and  do  like  the  rest  of  the  world. 
In  fact,  he  rather  enjoyed  the  defects  in  his  work  and 
was  as  well  aware  as  anybody  of  its  flimsiness. 

The  place  was  filled  with  all  sorts  of  wonderful  objects. 
Lord  Macaulay  says  : 

In  his  villa  every  apartment  is  a  museum,  every  piece  of 
furniture  is  a  curiosity  ;  there  is  something  strange  in  the  form 
A  curiosity  of  the  shovel,  there  is  a  long  story  belonging  to  the  bell-rope. 
We  wander  among  a  profusion  of  rarities  of  trifling  intrinsic 
value,  but  so  quaint  in  fashion  or  connected  with  such  remark- 
able names  and  events  that  they  may  well  detain  our  attention 
a  moment.  A  moment  is  enough.  Some  new  relic,  some  new 
unique,  some  new  carved  work,  some  new  enamel,  is  forthcom- 
ing in  an  instant.  One  cabinet  of  trinkets  is  no  sooner  closed 
than  another  is  opened. 

Walpole  established  a  printing  press,  amongst  other 
things,  on  the  grounds,  with  which  he  amused  the  com- 
pany who  came  incessantly  to  visit  him. 

Thus  employed,  and  always  actively  in  society,  and 
Mode  of  exist-  always  writing  away  at  his  letters,  this  remarkable  man 
passed  a  cheerful,  airy  kind  of  existence.  When  he 
was  seventy-four  he  became  by  the  death  of  his  nephew 
Earl  of  Oxford,  but  he  never  took  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Lords  and  seldom  used  the  new  title.  Some  of  his 
letters  after  the  succession  are  signed  "  the  lateH.  W.," 
and  some  of  them  "the  uncle  of  the  late  Earl  of 
Oxford."  He  died  in  1797  in  his  eightieth  year,  in  the 


ence. 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  207 

full  possession  of  his  faculties,  though  for  a  long  time  he 
had  suffered  greatly  from  the  effects  of  gout,  to  which 
he  was  a  martyr. 

Walpole  was  unpopular  in  his  time,  and  the  comments 
upon  him  by  his  contemporaries  are  severe ;  unneces- 
sarily so,  it  seems  to  us,  who  read  him  through  his  letters 
at  this  distance.  Inconsistency,  caprice,  eccentricity, 
affectation  are  charged  against  him.  No  doubt  his  pride 
of  rank,  his  strong  likes  and  dislikes,  freely  displayed, 
made  him  enemies. 

He  wrote  and  published  a  good  many  things,  but  his 
novel,  the  "Castle  of  Otranto,"  although  highly  praised,  "Castieof 

.        .  Otranto." 

is  extremely  dull,  and  his  other  publications  are  as 
nearly  as  possible  forgotten.  It  is  pleasant  to  say  that 
in  the  dispute  with  America  he  maintained,  from  the 
first,  the  right  of  our  colonies  to  liberty  and  independ- 
ence. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Walpole  regarded  letter- 
writing  as  an  art,  and  that  he  counted  on  being  remem- 
bered by  his  letters  far  more  than  by  any  other  of  his 
writings.  Meanwhile  he  himself  is  better  than  anything 
he  writes. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

I  PASS  over  Walpole's  earliest  letters,  and  those 
written  during  his  travels.  The  following  is  written  to 
his  friend  John  Chute,  whose  acquaintance  he  made  at 
Florence,  from  his  father's  seat  at 

Honghton,  August  20,  1743. 

INDEED,  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  You  certainly  did  not  use  to  be 
stupid,  and  till  you  give  me  more  substantial  proof  that  you  are 
so,  I  shall  not  believe  it.  As  for  your  temperate  diet  and  milk 
bringing  about  such  a  metamorphosis,  I  hold  it  impossible.  I 
have  such  lamentable  proofs  every  day  before  my  eyes  of  the 
stupefying  qualities  of  beef,  ale,  and  wine  that  I  have  contracted 
a  most  religious  veneration  for  your  spiritual  nouriture.  Only 
imagine  that  I  here  every  day  see  men  who  are  mountains  of 
roast  beef,  and  only  seem  just  roughly  hewn  out  into  the  out- 
lines of  human  form,  like  the  giant-rock  at  Pratolino  !  I  shud- 
Country  man-  der  when  I  see  them  brandish  their  knives  in  act  to  carve,  and 
look  on  them  as  savages  that  devour  one  another.  I  should 
not  stare  at  all  more  than  I  do  if  yonder  alderman  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  table  was  to  stick  his  fork  into  his  neighbor's  jolly 
cheek,  and  cut  a  brave  slice  of  brown  and  fat.  Why,  I'll  swear 
I  see  no  difference  between  a  country  gentleman  and  a  sirloin  ; 
whenever  the  first  laughs,  or  the  latter  is  cut,  there  run  out 
just  the  same  streams  of  gravy  !  Indeed,  the  sirloin  does  not 
ask  so  many  questions.  I  have  an  aunt  here,  a  family  piece  of 
goods,  an  old  remnant  of  inquisitive  hospitality  and  economy, 
who,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  is  as  beefy  as  her  neighbors. 
She  wore  me  so  down  yesterday  with  interrogatories  that  I 
dreamt  all  night  she  was  at  my  ear  with  "who's"  and 
"why's"  and  "  when's "  and  "where's,"  till  at  last  in  my 
very  sleep  I  cried  out,  "  For  heaven's  sake,  madam,  ask  me  no 
more  questions  !  " 

Oh,  my  dear  sir,  don't  you  find  that  nine  parts  in  ten  of  the 
world  are  of  no  use  but  to  make  vou  wish  vourself  with  that 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  209 


tenth  part  ?  I  am  so  far  from  growing  used  to  mankind  by 
living  amongst  them  that  my  natural  ferocity  and  wildness  does 
but  every  day  grow  worse.  They  tire  me,  they  fatigue  me  ;  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  them  ;  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
them  ;  I  fling  open  the  windows  and  fancy  I  want  air  ;  and 
when  I  get  by  myself,  I  undress-  myself,  and  seem  to  have  had 
people  in  my  pockets,  in  my  plaits,  and  on  my  shoulders.  I 
indeed  find  this  fatigue  worse  in  the  country  than  in  town, 
because  one  can  avoid  it  there  and  has  more  resources,  but  it  is 
there  too.  I  fear  'tis  growing  old  ;  but  I  literally  seem  to  have 
murdered  a  man  whose  name  was  Ennui,  for  his  ghost  is  ever 
before  me.  They  sav  there  is  no  English  word  for  ennui  ;  I  Definition 

3  °  .  of  ennui. 

think  you  may  translate  it  most  literally  by  what  is  called 
"entertaining  people"  and  "doing  the  honors,"  that  is,  you  sit 
an  hour  with  somebody  you  don't  know  and  don't  care  for, 
talk  about  the  wind  and  the  weather,  and  ask  a  thousand  fool- 
ish questions,  which  all  begin  with,  "I  think  you  live  a  good 
deal  in  the  country,"  or,  "I  think  you  don't  love  this  thing  or 
that."  Oh  !  'tis  dreadful. 

Horace  was  soon  in  the  full  tide  of  fashion,  not  to  say 
dissipation  ;  for  a  good  many  years  the  opera,  plays, 
balls,  routs,  and  other  diversions,  public  and  private, 
mingled  with  accounts  of  journeys  to  visit  great  houses 
in  the  country,  fill  up  the  letters,  together  with  abund- 
ance of  scandal  and  playful  jesting  on  the  follies  of  the 
day.  Here  is  an  amusing  account  of  the  sensation  pro- 
duced by  the  earthquake  which  alarmed  London  in  Earthquake 

of  1750. 


Portents  and  prodigies  are  grown  so  frequent  that  they  have 
lost  their  name. 

My  text  is  not  literally  true  ;  but  as  far  as  earthquakes  go 
toward  lowering  the  price  of  wonderful  commodities,  to  be 
sure  we  are  overstocked.  We  have  had  a  second,  much  more 
violent  than  the  first  ;  and  you  must  not  be  surprised  if  by  next 
post  you  hear  of  a  burning  mountain  sprung  up  in,  Smithfield. 
In  the  night  between  Wednesday  and  Thursday  last  (exactly  a 
month  since  the  first  shock),  the  earth  had  a  shivering  fit 
between  one  and  two  ;  but  so  slight  that,  if  no  more  had  fol- 


2io    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Centiiry. 

lowed  I  don't  believe  it  would  have  been  noticed.  I  had  been 
awake,  and  had  scarce  dozed  again — on  a  sudden  I  felt  my  bol- 
ster lift  up  my  head  ;  I  thought  somebody  was  getting  from 
under  my  bed,  but  soon  found  it  was  a  strong  earthquake,  that 
lasted  near  half  a  minute,  with  a  violent  vibration  and  great 
roaring.  I  rang  my  bell  ;  my  servant  came  in,  frightened  out 
of  his  senses  ;  in  an  instant  we  heard  all  the  windows  of  the 
neighborhood  flung  up.  I  got  up  and  found  people  running 
Slight  dam-  'nto  ^ie  streets»  but  saw  no  mischief  done  ;  there  has  been 
age  done.  some  ;  two  old  houses  flung  down,  several  chimneys  and 

much  china-ware.  The  bells  rang  in  several  houses.  Admiral 
Knowles,  who  has  lived  long  in  Jamaica,  and  felt  seven  there, 
says  this  was  more  violent  than  any  of  them  :  Francesco  pre- 
fers it  to  the  dreadful  one  at  Leghorn.  The  wise  say  that  if  we 
have  not  rain  soon,  we  shall  certainly  have  more.  Several 
people  are  going  out  of  town,  for  it  has  nowhere  reached  above 
ten  miles  from  London  ;  they  say,  they  are  not  frightened,  but 
that  it  is  such  fine  weather,  "Why,  one  can't  help  going  out 
into  the  country  !  "  The  only  visible  effect  it  has  had  was  on 
the  ridotto,  at  which,  being  the  following  night,  there  were  but 
four  hundred  people. 

A  parson,  \vho  came  into  White's  the  morning  of  earthquake 
the  first,  and  heard  bets  laid  on  whether  it  was  an  earthquake 
or  the  blowing  up  of  powder-mills,  went  away  exceedingly 
Betting  upon  scandalized,  and  said,  "  I  protest,  they  are  such  an  impious  set 
of  people,  that  I  believe  if  the  last  trumpet  was  to  sound,  they 
would  bet  puppet-show  against  Judgment."  If  we  get  any 
nearer  still  to  the  torrid  zone,  I  shall  pique  myself  on  sending 
you  a  present  of  cedrati  and  orange-flower  water  :  I  am  already 
planning  a  terreno  for  Strawberry  Hill. 

I  told  you  the  women  talked  of  going  out  of  town  ;  several 
families  are  literally  gone,  and  many  more  going  to-day  and 
to-morrow  ;  for  what  adds  to  the  absurdity  is,  that  the  second 
shock  having  happened  exactly  a  month  after  the  former,  it 
prevails  that  there  will  be  a  third  on  Thursday  next,  another 
month,  which  is  to  swallow  up  London.  I  am  almost  ready  to 
burn  my  letter  now  I  have  begun  it,  lest  you  think  I  am  laugh- 
ing at  you  :  but  it  is  so  true,  that  Arthur  of  White's  told  me  last 
night  that  he  should  put  off  the  last  ridotto,  which  was  to  be 
on  Thursday,  because  he  hears  nobody  would  come  to  it.  I 
have  advised  several  who  are  going  to  keep  their  next  earth- 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  211 

quake  in  the  country,  to  take  the  bark  for  it,  as  it  is  so  periodic. 
Dick  Leveson  and  Mr.  Rigby,  who  had  supped  and  stayed  late 
at  Bedford  House  the  other  night,  knocked  at  several  doors, 
and  in  a  watchman's  voice  cried,  "Past  four  o'clock,  and  a 
dreadful  earthquake."  But  I  have  done  with  this  ridiculous  Ridiculous 
panic  ;  two  pages  were  too  much  to  talk  of  it. 

I  had  not  time  to  finish  my  letter  on  Monday.  I  return  to  the 
earthquake,  which  I  had  mistaken  ;  it  is  to  be  to-day.  This 
frantic  terror  prevails  so  much  that  within  these  three  days 
seven  hundred  and  thirty  coaches  have  been  counted  passing 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  with  whole  parties  removing  into  the 
country.  Here  is  a  good  advertisement  which  I  cut  out  of  the 
papers  to-day  : 

"On  Monday  next  will  be  published,  price  6d.,  a  true  and 
exact  List  of  all  the  Nobility  and  Gentry  who  have  left,  or  shall 
leave,  this  place  through  fear  of  another  Earthquake." 

Several  women  have  made  earthquake  gowns  ;  that  is,  warm 
gowns  to  sit  out  of  doors  all  to-night.  These  are  of  the  more 
courageous.  One  woman,  still  more  heroic,  is  come  to  town 
on  purpose  ;  she  says,  all  her  friends  are  in  London,  and  she 
will  not  survive  them.  But  what  will  you  think  of  Lady  Cath- 
arine Pelham,  Lady  Frances  Arundel,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Gal- 
way,  who  go  this  evening  to  an  inn  ten  miles  out  of  town, 
where  they  are  to  play  at  brag  till  five  in  the  morning,  and  then 
come  back — I  suppose,  to  look  for  the  bones  of  their  husbands 
and  families  under  the  rubbish  ? 

Not    long    after   the    earthquake    we    find   Walpole  Afro]icat 
engaged  in  a  frolic  at  Vauxhall,  in  the  best  of  company,    Vauxhaii. 
a  gay  party  ' '  parading  up ' '  the  river  in  a  barge,  a  boat 
of  French  horns  attending,  and  the  young  ladies  sing- 
ing. 

At  last  we  assembled  in  our  booths.  Lady  Caroline  in  the  front 
with  the  visor  of  her  head  erect  and  looking  gloriously  jolly 
and  handsome.  She  had  fetched  my  brother  Orford  from  the 
next  box,  where  he  was  enjoying  himself  with  \\v-ipctite  partie, 
to  help  us  to  mince  chickens.  We  minced  seven  chickens  into 
a  china  dish,  which  Lady  Caroline  stewed  over  a  lamp  with 
three  pots  of  butter  and  a  flagon  of  water,  stirring  and  rattling 
and  laughing,  and  we  every  minute  expecting  to  have  the  dish 


212     Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

fly  about  our  ears.  ...  In  short,  the  whole  air  of  our 
party  was  sufficient,  as  you  may  imagine,  to  take  up  the  whole 
attention  of  the  garden  ;  so  much  so  that  from  eleven  o'clock 
till  half  an  hour  after  one  we  had  the  whole  concourse  round 
our  booth  ;  at  last  they  came  into  the  little  gardens  of  each 
booth  on  the  sides  of  ours,  till  Harry  Vane  took  up  a  bumper 
and  drank  their  healths. 

After   the   king's   marriage   (George   III.   to    Queen 
Royal  marriage.   Charlotte)  he  writes  : 

When  we  least  expected  the  queen,  she  came,  after  being  ten 
days  at  sea,  but  without  sickness  for  above  half  an  hour.  She 
was  gay  the  whole  voyage,  sung  to  her  harpsichord,  and  left 
the  door  of  her  cabin  open.  They  made  the  coast  of  Suffolk  last 
Saturday  and  on  Monday  morning  she  landed  at  Harwich  ;  so 
prosperously  has  Lord  Anson  executed  his  commission.  She 
lay  that  night  at  your  old  friend  Lord  Abercorn's  at  Witham  in 
Essex  ;  and,  if  she  judged  by  her  host,  must  have  thought  she 
was  coming  to  reign  in  the  realm  of  taciturnity.  She  arrived  at 
St.  James's  a  quarter  after  three  on  Tuesday  the  8th.  When 
she  first  saw  the  palace  she  turned  pale  ;  the  Duchess  of  Ham- 
ilton smiled. 

"My  dear  duchess,"  said  the  princess,  "you  may  laugh; 
you  have  been  married  twice  ;  but  it  is  no  joke  to  me." 

Anecdotes  of  Is  this  a  bad  proof  of  her  sense  ?    On  the  journey  they 

the  queen.  .     .  ,  .  . 

wanted  to  curl  her  toupet. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she,  "  I  think  it  looks  as  well  as  those  ot 
the  ladies  who  have  been  sent  for  me  :  if  the  king  would  have 
me  wear  a  periwig,  I  will ;  otherwise  I  shall  let  myself  alone." 

The  Duke  of  York  gave  her  his  hand  at  the  garden  gate  ; 
her  lips  trembled,  but  she  jumped  out  with  spirit.  In  the  gar- 
den the  king  met  her ;  she  would  have  fallen  at  his  feet  ;  he 
prevented  and  embraced  her,  and  led  her  into  the  apartments, 
where  she  was  received  by  the  Princess  of  Wales  and  Lady 
Augusta  :  these  three  princesses  only  dined  with  the  king.  At 
ten  the  procession  went  to  chapel,  preceded  by  unmarried 
daughters  of  peers  and  peeresses  in  plenty.  The  new  princess 
was  led  by  the  Duke  of  York  and  Prince  William  ;  the  arch- 
bishop married  them  ;  the  king  talked  to  her  the  whole  time 
with  great  good-humor,  and  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  gave  her 
away.  She  is  not  tall,  nor  a  beauty  ;  pale,  and  very  thin  ;  but 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  213 

looks  sensible,  and  is  genteel.  Her  hair  is  darkish  and  fine  ; 
her  forehead  low,  her  nose  very  well,  except  the  nostrils  Her  appear- 
spreading  too  wide  ;  her  mouth  has  the  same  fault,  but  her  ance< 
teeth  are  good.  She  talks  a  good  deal,  and  French  tolerably  ; 
possesses  herself,  is  frank,  but  with  great  respect  to  the  king. 
After  the  ceremony  the  whole  company  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  for  about  ten  minutes,  but  nobody  was  presented  that 
night.  The  queen  was  in  white  and  silver  ;  an  endless  mantle 
of  violet-colored  velvet,  lined  with  ermine,  and  attempted  to  be 
fastened  on  her  shoulder  by  a  bunch  of  large  pearls,  dragged 
itself  and  almost  the  rest  of  her  clothes  half  way  down  her 
waist.  On  her  head  was  a  beautiful  little  tiara  of  diamonds  ;  a 
diamond  necklace,  and  a  stomacher  of  diamonds,  worth  three- 
score thousand  pounds,  which  she  is  to  wear  at  the  coronation 
too.  Her  train  was  borne  by  the  ten  bridesmaids  ;  their  heads 
crowned  with  diamonds,  and  in  robes  of  white  and  silver. 

The  peace  of  Paris  brought  many  French  people  over 
to  join  the  society  of  London.  Walpole  gave  an  enter- 
tainment to  some  of  these  guests  at  Strawberry  Hill. 

.     .     .     We  breakfasted  in  the  great  parlor,  and  I  had  filled  ,      . 

the  hall  and  large  cloister  by  turns  with  French  horns  and 
clarionettes.  As  the  French  ladies  had  never  seen  a  printing- 
house  I  carried  them  into  mine  ;  they  found  something  ready 
set,  and  desiring  to  see  what  it  was,  it  proved  as  follows  : 

THE  PRESS  SPEAKS  FOR  MADAME  DE  BOUFFLERS. 
The  graceful  fair,  who  loves  to  know, 
Nor  dreads  the  north's  inclement  snow  ; 
Who  bids  her  polish'd  accent  wear 
The  British  diction's  harsher  air  ; 
Shall  read  her  praise  in  every  clime 
Where  types  can  speak  or  poets  rhyme. 

FOR  MADAME  Dussox. 
Feign  not  an  ignorance  of  what  I  speak  ; 
You  could  not  miss  my  meaning  were  it  Greek  : 
'Tis  the  same  language  Belgium  uttered  first, 
The  same  which  from  admiring  Gallia  burst. 
True  sentiment  a  like  expression  pours  ; 
Each  countrv  savs  the  same  to  eves  like  vours. 


214    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

You  will  comprehend  that  the  first  speaks  English,  and  that 
the  second  does  not ;  that  the  second  is  handsome,  and  the  first 
not ;  and  that  the  second  was  born  in  Holland. 

A  fortnight  afterward  he  writes  : 

June  jth. 

Last  night  we  had  a  magnificent  entertainment  at  Richmond 
Entertainment  ,    ,.  .  , 

at  Richmond        House,  a  masquerade  and  fireworks.     A  masquerade  was  a 

new  sight  to  the  young  people,  who  have  dressed  themselves 
charmingly,  without  having  the  fear  of  an  earthquake  before 
their  eyes,  though  Prince  William  and  Prince  Henry  were  not 
suffered  to  be  there.  The  Duchesses  of  Richmond  and  Graf- 
ton,  the  first  as  a  Persian  sultana,  the  latter  as  Cleopatra — and 
such  a  Cleopatra  ! — were  glorious  figures,  in  very  different 
styles.  Mrs.  Fitzroy  in  a  Turkish  dress,  Lady  George  and 
Lady  Bolingbroke  as  Grecian  girls,  Lady  Mary  Coke  as 
Imoinda,  and  Lady  Pembroke  as  a  pilgrim,  were  the  principal 
beauties  of  the  night.  The  whole  garden  was  illuminated,  and 
the  apartments.  An  encampment  of  barges  decked  with 
streamers  in  the  middle  of  the  Thames  kept  the  people  from 
danger,  and  formed  a  stage  for  the  fireworks,  which  were 
placed,  too,  along  the  rails  of  the  garden.  The  ground  rooms 
lighted,  with  supper  spread,  the  houses  covered  and  filled  with 
people,  the  bridge,  the  garden  full  of  masks. 

Last  Thursday  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry  gave  a  ball, 
Duchess  of          opened  it  herself  with  a  minuet,   and  danced  two  country 
Queensberry.       dances  :  as  she  had  enjoined  everybody  to  be  with  her  by  six, 
to  sup  at  twelve,  and  go  away  directly.     The  only  extraordi- 
nary thing  the  duchess  did  was  to  do  nothing  extraordinary, 
for  I  do  not  call  it  very  mad  that  some  pique  happening 
between  her  and  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  the  latter  had  this 
distich  sent  to  her, 

Come  with  a  whistle,  and  come  with  a  call, 
Come  with  a  good-will,  or  come  not  at  all. 

.  .  .  If  it  was  not  too  long  to  transcribe,  I  would  send  you 
an  entertaining  petition  of  the  periwig-makers  to  the  king,  in 
which  they  complain  that  men  will  wear  their  own  hair. 
Should  one  almost  wonder  if  carpenters  were  to  remonstrate 
that  since  the  peace  their  trade  decays,  and  that  there  is  no 
more  demand  for  wooden  legs  ?  Apropos,  my  Lady  Hertford's 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  215 

friend,  Lady  Harriot  Vernon,  has  quarreled  with  me  for 
smiling  at  the  enormous  head-gear  of  her  daughter,  Lady 
Grosvenor.  She  came  one  night  to  Northumberland  House 
with  such  a  display  of  frizz  that  it  literally  spread  beyond  her 
shoulders.  I  happened  to  say  it  looked  as  if  her  parents  had 
stinted  her  in  hair  before  marriage  and  that  she  was  deter- 
mined to  indulge  her  fancy  now. 

Strawberry  Hill,  March  p,  /7<5j. 

I  had  time  to  write  but  a  short  note  with  the  "Castle  of  Note  with  the 
Otranto,"  as  your  messenger  called  on  me  at  four  o'clock,  as  I  otranto.°' 
was  going  to  dine  abroad.  Your  partiality  to  me  and  Straw- 
berry have,  I  hope,  inclined  you  to  excuse  the  wildness  of 
the  story.  You  will  even  have  found  some  traits  to  put  you  in 
mind  of  this  place.  When  you  read  of  the  picture  quitting  its 
panel,  did  not  you  recollect  the  portrait  of  Lord  Falkland,  all 
in  white,  in  my  gallery  ?  Shall  I  even  confess  to  you  what  was 
the  origin  of  this  romance  ?  I  waked  one  morning,  in  the 
beginning  of  last  June,  from  a  dream,  of  which  all  I  could 
recover  was  that  I  had  thought  myself  in  an  ancient  castle 
(a  very  natural  dream  for  a  head  like  mine  filled  with  Gothic 
story),  and  that  on  the  uppermost  bannister  of  a  great  staircase 
I  saw  a  gigantic  hand  in  armor.  In  the  evening  I  sat  down  and 
began  to  write,  without  knowing  in  the  least  what  I  intended  to 
say  or  relate.  The  work  grew  on  my  hands,  and  I  grew  fond 
of  it — add,  that  I  was  glad  to  think  of  anything  rather  than 
politics.  In  short,  I  was  so  engrossed  with  my  tale,  which  I 
completed  in  less  than  two  months,  that  one  evening  I  wrote 
from  the  time  I  had  drunk  my  tea,  about  six  o'clock,  till  half 
an  hour  after  one  in  the  morning,  when  my  hand  and  fingers 
were  so  weary  that  I  could  not  hold  the  pen  to  finish  the 
sentence,  but  left  Matilda  and  Isabella  talking  in  the  middle  of 
a  paragraph.  You  will  laugh  at  my  earnestness  ;  but  if  I  have 
amused  you  by  retracing  with  any  fidelity  the  manners  of 
ancient  days  I  am  content,  and  give  you  leave  to  think  me 
as  idle  as  you  please. 

A  large  part  of  Walpole' s  correspondence  was  des- 
patched at  night  after  his  return  from  the  theater  or  a  po'L"30 
reception.      His  habits  were  late.      He  was  a  late  riser, 
and  he  often  played  cards  till  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 


2 1 6    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

morning.  Whist  he  disliked,  but  gave  himself  to  faro 
while  that  game  was  in  vogue,  and  afterward  to  loo, 
with  all  the  fervor  of  a  devotee.  But  when  not  thus 
occupied  the  hours  observed  by  the  fashionable  world 
allowed  him  to  retire  early  to  his  desk.  How  different 
those  hours  were  then  from  what  they  are  now  may  be 
gathered  from  Walpole's  amusing  sketch  of  a  retarded 
dinner,  at  which  he  was  a  sufferer,  in  1765  : 

Now  for  my  disaster ;  you  will  laugh  at  it,  though  it  was 
woful  to  me.  I  was  to  dine  at  Northumberland  House,  and 

A  retarded  went  a  little  after  hour  ;  there  I  found  the  countess,  Lady  Itetty 
Mackenzie,  Lady  Strafford  ;  my  Lady  Finlater,  who  was  never 
out  of  Scotland  before  ;  a  tall  lad  of  fifteen,  her  son  ;  Lord 
Drogheda,  and  Mr.  \Vorseley.  At  five  arrived  Mr.  Mitchell, 
who  said  the  Lords  had  begun  to  read  the  Poor-bill,  which 
would  take  at  least  two  hours,  and  perhaps  would  debate  it 
afterward.  \Ve  concluded  dinner  would  be  called  for,  it  not 
being  very  precedented  for  ladies  to  wait  for  gentlemen — no 
such  thing.  Six  o'clock  came — seven  o'clock  came — our 
coaches  came — well !  we  sent  them  away,  and  excuses  were 
we  were  engaged.  Still  the  countess's  heart  did  not  relent, 
nor  uttered  a  syllable  of  apology.  We  wore  out  the  wind  and 
the  weather,  the  opera  and  play,  Mrs.  Cornely's  and  Almack's, 
and  every  topic  that  would  do  in  a  formal  circle.  We  hinted, 
represented — in  vain.  The  clock  struck  eight :  my  lady  at  last 
said  she  would  go  and  order  dinner  ;  but  it  was  a  good  half- 
hour  before  it  appeared.  We  then  sat  down  to  a  table  for  four- 
teen covers  :  but  instead  of  substantial,  there  was  nothing  but 
a  profusion  of  plates  striped  red,  green,  and  yellow,  gilt  plates, 
blacks,  and  uniforms  !  My  Lady  Finlater,  who  had  never  seen 

guests  these  embroidered  dinners,  nor  dined  after  three,  was  fam- 

ished. The  first  course  stayed  as  long  as  possible,  in  hopes  of 
the  lords  ;  so  did  the  second.  The  dessert  arrived  at  last,  and 
the  middle  disli  was  actually  set  on  when  Lord  Finlater  and 
Mr.  Mackay  arrived  !  Would  you  believe  it? — the  dessert  was 
remanded,  and  the  whole  first  course  brought  back  again. 
.  When  the  clock  struck  eleven  I  said  I  was  engaged  to 
supper  and  came  home  to  bed. 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  217 

In  1770,  Walpole  descants  on  the  extravagance  of  the 

Extravagance 
of  the  age. 

What  do  you  think  of  a  winter-Ranelagh  erecting  in  Oxford 
Road,  at  the  expense  of  sixty  thousand  pounds  ?  The  new 
bank,  including  the  value  of  the  ground  and  of  the  houses  de- 
molished to  make  room  for  it,  will  cost  three  hundred  thou- 
sand ;  and  erected,  as  my  Lady  Townley  says,  by  sober  citizens, 
too  !  I  have  touched  before  to  you  on  the  incredible  profusion 
of  our  young  men  of  fashion.  I  know  a  younger  brother  who 
literally  gives  a  flower-woman  half  a  guinea  every  morning  for 
a  bunch  of  roses  for  the  nose-gay  in  his  button-hole.  There 
has  lately  been  an  auction  of  stuffed  birds  ;  and,  as  natural  his- 
tory is  in  fashion,  there  are  physicians  and  others  who  paid 
forty  and  fifty  guineas  for  a  single  Chinese  pheasant ;  you  may 
buy  a  live  one  for  five.  After  this,  it  is  not  extraordinary  that 
pictures  should  be  dear.  We  have  at  present  three  exhibitions. 
One  West,  who  paints  history  in  the  taste  of  Poussin,  gets 
three  hundred  pounds  for  a  piece  not  too  large  to  hang  over  a 
chimney.  He  has  merit,  but  is  hard  and  heavy,  and  far 
unworthy  of  such  prices.  The  rage  to  see  these  exhibitions  is 
so  great  that  sometimes  one  cannot  pass  through  the  streets 
where  they  are.  But  it  is  incredible  what  sums  are  raised  by 
mere  exhibitions  of  anything — a  new  fashion  ;  and  to  enter  at 
which  you  pay  a  shilling  or  half  a  crown.  Another  rage  is  for 
prints  of  English  portraits  :  I  have  been  collecting  them  for 
over  thirty  years,  and  originally  never  gave  for  a  mezzotinto 
above  one  or  two  shillings.  The  lowest  are  now  a  crown  ;  most, 
from  half  a  guinea  to  a  guinea.  Then  we  have  Etruscan  vases, 
made  of  earthenware,  in  Staffordshire  (by  Wedgwood)  from 
two  to  five  guineas  ;  and  or  nioulu,  never  made  here  before, 
which  succeeds  so  well  that  a  tea-kettle,  which  the  inventor 
offered  for  one  hundred  guineas,  sold  by  auction  for  one  hundred 
and  thirty.  In  short,  we  are  at  the  height  of  extravagance  and 
improvements,  for  we  do  improve  rapidly  in  taste  as  well  as  in 

.        ,.  ,     r  .  _  .       Its  improve- 

the  former.     I  cannot  say  so  much  for  our  genius.     Poetry  is    moms, 
gone  to  bed,  or  into  our  prose  ;  we  are  like  the  Romans  in  that 
too.      If  we   have   the   arts   of   the   Antonines,   we   have   the 
fustian  also. 

In  July,   1770,  Walpole  received  a  command  to  attend 


2i8    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

the  Princess  Amelia  on  a  visit  to  Stowe.       He  describes 
Princess  what  occurred  to  George  Montagu  : 

Amelia. 

We  breakfasted  at  half  an  hour  after  nine  ;  but  the  princess 
did  not  appear  till  it  was  finished ;  then  we  walked  in  the 
garden,  or  drove  about  in  cabriolets  till  it  was  time  to  dress ; 
dined  at  three,  which,  though  properly  proportioned  to  the 
smallness  of  the  company  to  avoid  ostentation,  lasted  a  vast 
while,  as  the  princess  eats  and  talks  a  great  deal  ;  then  again 
into  the  garden  till  past  seven,  when  we  came  in,  drank  tea  and 
coffee,  and  played  at  pharaoh  till  ten,  when  the  princess  retired, 
and  we  went  to  supper,  and  before  twelve  to  bed.  You  will  see 
there  was  great  sameness  and  little  vivacity  in  all  this.  It  was 
broken  a  little  by  fishing,  and  going  round  the  park  one  of  the 
mornings  ;  but,  in  reality,  the  number  of  buildings  and  variety 
of  scenes  in  the  garden  made  each  day  different  from  the  rest, 
and  my  meditations  on  so  historic  a  spot  prevented  my  being 
tired.  Every  acre  brings  to  one's  mind  some  instance  of 
the  parts  or  pedantry,  of  the  taste  or  want  of  taste,  of  the 
ambition  or  love  of  fame,  or  greatness  or  miscarriages,  of  those 
that  have  inhabited,  decorated,  planned,  or  visited  the  place. 

On  Wednesday  night  a  small  Vauxhall  was  acted  for  us  at 

A  small  the  grotto  in  the  Elysian  Fields,  which  was  illuminated  with 

Vauxhall.  ,  .   ,  ,  ,.    ,      ,       , 

lamps,  as  were  the  thicket  and  two  little  barks  on  the  lake. 

With  a  little  exaggeration  I  could  make  you  believe  that  noth- 
ing ever  was  so  delightful.  The  idea  was  really  pretty  ;  but  as 
my  feelings  have  lost  something  of  their  romantic  sensibility,  I 
did  not  quite  enjoy  such  an  entertainment  alfresco  so  much  as 
I  should  have  done  twenty  years  ago.  The  evening  was  more 
than  cool  and  the  destined  spot  anything  but  dry.  There  were 
not  half  lamps  enough,  and  no  music  but  an  ancient  militiaman, 
who  played  cruelly  on  a  squeaking  tabor  and  pipe.  As  our 
procession  descended  the  vast  flight  of  steps  into  the  garden, 
in  which  was  assembled  a  crowd  of  people  from  Buckingham 
and  the  neighboring  villages  to  see  the  princess  and  the  show, 
the  moon  shining  very  bright,  I  could  not  help  laughing  as  I 
surveyed  our  troop,  which,  instead  of  tripping  lightly  to  such 
an  Arcadian  entertainment,  were  hobbling  down  by  the  balus- 
trades, wrapped  up  in  cloaks  and  great-coats,  for  fear  of  catching 
cold.  The  earl,  you  know,  is  bent  double,  the  countess  very 
lame  ;  I  am  a  miserable  walker,  and  the  princess,  though  as 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  219 

strong  as  a  Brunswick  lion,  makes  no  figure  in  going  down 
fifty  stone  stairs.     Except  Lady  Anne,  and  by  courtesy  Lady   slight  an- 
Mary,  we  were  none  of  us  young  enough  for  a  pastoral.     We   n°yances- 
supped  in  the  grotto,  which  is  as  proper  to  this  climate  as  a  sea- 
coal  fire  would  be  in  the  dog-days  at  Tivoli. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IN  1773  Walpole  gives  an  anecdote  about  Garrick 
and  Goldsmith ;  it  is  the  year  before  Goldsmith  died. 

An  cdote  of  ^  dined  and  passed  Saturday  at  Beauclerks'  with  the  Edge- 

Garrick  and  combes,  the  Garricks,  and  Dr.  Goldsmith,  and  was  most 
thoroughly  tried,  as  I  knew  I  should  be,  I  who  hate  playing  off 
a  butt.  Goldsmith  is  a  fool,  the  more  wearying  for  having 
some  sense.  It  was  the  night  of  a  new  comedy,  called  "The 
School  for  Wives,"  which  was  exceedingly  applauded,  and 
which  Charles  Fox  says  is  execrable.  Garrick  has  at  least  the 
chief  hand  in  it.  I  never  saw  anybody  in  a  greater  fidget,  nor 
more  vain  when  he  returned,  for  he  went  to  the  play-house  at 
half  past  five,  and  we  sate  waiting  for  him  till  tea,  when  he  was 
to  act  a  speech  in  "  Cato  "  with  Goldsmith  !  That  is,  the  latter 
sate  in  t'other's  lap,  covered  with  a  cloak,  and  while  Gold- 
smith spoke  Garrick's  arms,  that  embraced  him,  made  foolish 
actions.  How  could  one  laugh  when  one  had  expected  this  for 
four  hours  ! 

In  a  letter  to  Horace  Mann,  dated  November  24, 
1774,  he  writes  : 

Don't  tell  me  I  am  grown  old  and  peevish  and  supercilious — 
A  prophecy.  name  the  geniuses  of  1774  and  I  submit.  The  next  Augustan 
age  will  dawn  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  There  will, 
perhaps,  be  a  Thucydides  at  Boston,  a  Xenophon  at  New 
York,  and  in  time  a  Virgil  at  Mexico,  and  a  Newton  at  Peru. 
At  last  some  curious  traveler  from  Lima  will  visit  England  and 
give  a  description  of  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's,  like  the  editions  of 
Balbec  and  Palmyra  ;  but  am  I  not  prophesying,  contrary  to  my 
usual  prudence,  and  casting  horoscopes  of  empires  like  Rous- 
seau? 'Tis  well,  I  will  go  and  dream  my  visions. 

Walpole' s  traveler  from  Lima  has  often  been  quoted 
as  the  original  of  Macaulay's  "  New  Zealander, "  stand- 
ing on  London  Bridge  in  a  vast  solitude  to  sketch  the 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  221 

ruins  of  St.    Paul's.      But  Macaulay  invented  his  New 
Zealander  in  1840,  whereas  the  extract  above  given  is   ?fecau'2y's1 
taken  from  Walpole' s  correspondence  with  Mann  and  ander-" 
was  first  published  from  the  original  manuscripts  only 
in   1843. 

The  letters  keep  on,  with  the  same  persevering  liveli- 
ness, from  year  to  year  ;  in  1781  he  writes  : 

I  saw  Dr.  Johnson  last  night  (then  seventy-two  years  old)  at 
Lady  Lucan's,  who  had  assembled  a  blue-stocking  meeting  in 
imitation  of  Mrs.  Vesey's  babels.  It  was  so  blue,  it  was  quite 
Mazarine  blue.  Mrs.  Montagu  kept  aloof  from  Johnson,  like 
the  West  from  the  East. 

This  is  not  our  Lady  Mary  (who  died  in  1762),  but  a 
lady  who  originated  the  "Blue-stocking  Club,"  one  of  stockingUciub.' 
the  pet  dislikes  of  Horace.      He  writes  about  the  same 
time  : 

I  met  Mrs.  Montagu  t'other  night  at  a  visit.  She  said  she 
had  been  alone  the  whole  preceding  day,  quite  hermetically 
sealed.  I  was  very  glad  she  was  uncorked,  or  I  might  have 
missed  that  piece  of  nonsense.  She  is  one  of  my  principal 
entertainments  at  Mrs.  Vesey's,  who  collects  all  the  graduates 
and  candidates  for  fame,  where  they  vie  with  one  another  till 
they  are  as  unintelligible  as  the  good  folks  at  babel. 

From  Strawberry  Hill,  in  August,  1782,  he  writes  : 

Drowned  as  we  are,  the  country  never  was  in  such  beauty  ; 
the  herbage  and  leafage  are  luxurious.  The  Thames  gives 
itself  Rhone  airs,  and  almost  foams  ;  it  is  none  of  your  home- 
brewed rivers  that  Mr.  Brown  makes  with  a  spade  and  a  water- 
ing-pot. Apropos,  Mr.  Duane,  like  a  good  housewife,  in  the 
middle  of  his  grass-plot,  has  planted  a  pump  and  watering 
trough  for  his  cow,  and  I  suppose  on  Saturdays  dries  his  towels 
and  neckcloths  on  his  orange-trees  ;  but  I  must  have  done,  or 
the  post  will  be  gone. 

At  the  end  of  1782  Mrs.  Siddons  was  the  talk  of  the   Mrs.  siddons 

_.      .      ..        ,          ,«,    ,        ,  ......          the  talk  of  the 

town.      Prejudiced  as  Walpole  was  apt  to  be  in  his  judg-   town. 


222     Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

merits  of  actors,   as  of  authors,   his  impressions  of  this 
famous  actress  will  be  read  with  interest. 

I  have  been  in  town  two  days,  and  seen  Mrs.  Siddons.  She 
on^f  her  pleased  me  beyond  my  expectation,  but  not  up  to  the  admira- 
tion of  the  ton,  two  or  three  of  whom  were  in  the  same  box 
with  me.  Mr.  Crawford  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  her  the 
best  actress  I  ever  saw  ?  I  said,  "  By  no  means  ;  we  old  folks 
were  apt  to  be  prejudiced  in  favor  of  our  first  impressions." 
She  is  a  good  figure,  handsome  enough,  though  neither  nose  nor 
chin  according  to  the  Greek  standard,  beyond  which  they  both 
advance  a  good  deal.  Her  hair  is  either  red,  or  she  has  no  ob- 
jection to  its  being  thought  so,  and  had  used  red  powder.  Her 
voice  is  clear  and  good  ;  but  I  thought  she  did  not  vary  its 
modulations  enough,  nor  ever  approach  enough  to  the  familiar 
— but  this  may  come  when  more  habituated  to  the  awe  of  the 
audience  of  the  capital.  Her  action  is  proper,  but  with  little 
variety  ;  when  without  motion,  her  arms  are  not  genteel. 
Thus  you  see  all  my  objections  are  very  trifling  ;  but  what  I 
really  wanted,  but  did  not  find,  was  originality,  which  an- 
nounces genius,  and  without  both  I  am  never  intrinsically 
pleased.  All  Mrs.  Siddons  did,  good  sense  or  good  instruction 
might  give.  I  dare  to  say  that  were  I  one  and  twenty,  I  should 
have  thought  her  marvelous  ;  but,  alas  !  I  remember  Mrs.  Por- 
ter and  the  Dumesnil — and  remember  every  accent  of  the  for- 
mer in  the  very  same  part.  Yet  this  is  not  entirely  prejudice  : 
don't  I  equally  recollect  the  whole  progress  of  Lord  Chatham 
and  Charles  Townshend,  and  does  it  hinder  my  thinking  Mr. 
Fox  a  prodigy  ?  Pray  don't  send  him  this  paragraph. 

Again  : 

Mrs.  Siddons  continues  to  be  the  mode,  and  to  be  modest 
Modest  and  and  sensible.  She  declines  great  dinners,  and  says  her  business 
and  the  cares  of  her  family  take  up  her  whole  time.  When 
Lord  Carlisle  carried  her  the  tribute  money  from  Brooks's,  he 
said  she  was  not  manierec  enough.  "  I  suppose  she  was  grate- 
ful," said  my  niece,  Lady  Maria.  Mrs.  Siddons  was  desired  to 
play  "Medea"  and  "Lady  Macbeth."  "  Xo,"  she  replied, 
"she  did  not  look  on  them  as  female  characters."  She  was 
questioned  about  her  transactions  with  Garrick  :  she  said, 
"  He  did  nothing  but  put  her  out  ;  that  he  told  her  she  moved 


Horace   Walpole  and  Gray.  223 

her  right  hand  when  it  should  have  been  her  left.     In  short," 
said  she,  "  I  found  I  must  not  shade  the  tip  of  his  nose." 

The  recent  invention  of  air  balloons  (1784)  was  at  invention  of 
this  time  exciting  general  interest.      He  says  : 

This  enormous  capital  that  must  have  some  occupation  is 
most  innocently  amused  with  those  philosophic  playthings.  An 
Italian,  one  Lunardi,  is  the  first  air-go-natit  that  has  mounted 
into  the  clouds  in  this  country.  He  is  said  to  have  bought  three 
or  four  thousand  pounds  in  the  stocks,  by  exhibiting  his  person, 
his  balloon,  and  his  dog  and  his  cat,  at  the  Pantheon  for  a 
shilling  a  visitor.  Blanchard,  a  Frenchman,  is  his  rival ;  and  I 
expect  that  they  will  soon  have  an  air  fight  in  the  clouds  like  a 
stork  and  a  kite. 

In  1785  he  reports  from  Strawberry  Hill ': 

Dr.  Burney  and  his  daughter  Evelina-Cecilia  have  passed  a 
day  and  a  half  with  me.  He  is  lively  and  agreeable  ;  she  half 
and  half  sense  and  modesty,  which  possess  her  so  entirely  that 
not  a  cranny  is  left  for  affectation  or  pretension.  Oh !  Mrs. 
Montagu,  you  are  not  above  half  as  accomplished. 

To  the  end  of  his  life,  although  much  crippled  by  gout, 
Walpole  retained  his  love  for  life  and  movement.      He 
received  a  visit  from  Queen    Charlotte  at   Strawberry   oiTeen  Char- 
Hill   as    kite   as    the   summer   of  1795.      He    sends    an 

account  of  it  to  Conway  : 

Strawberry. 

As  you  are,  or  have  been  in  town,  your  daughter  (Mrs. 
Darner)  will  have  told  you  in  what  a  bustle  I  am,  preparing, 
not  to  visit,  but  to  receive  an  invasion  of  royalties  to-morrow  ; 
and  cannot  even  escape  them,  like  Admiral  Cornwallis,  though 
seeming  to  make  a  semblance  ;  for  I  am  to  wear  a  sword,  and 
have  appointed  my  two  aides-de-camp,  my  nephews,  George 
and  Horace  Churchill.  If  I  fall,  as  ten  to  one  but  I  do,  to  be 
sure  it  will  be  a  superb  tumble,  at  the  feet  of  a  queen,  and  eight 
daughters  of  kings  ;  for  besides  the  six  princesses,  I  am  to  have 
the  Duchess  of  York  and  the  Princess  of  Orange  !  Woe  is  me, 
at  seventy-eight,  and  with  scarce  a  hand  and  foot  to  my  back  ! 
Adieu  !  Yours,  etc., 

A  POOR  OLD  REMNANT. 


224    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


He  adds  later  : 

I  am  not  dead  of  fatigue  with  my  royal  visitors,  as  I  expected 
to  be,  though  I  was  on  my  poor  lame  feet  three  whole  hours. 
Your  daughter,  who  kindly  assisted  me  in  doing  the  honors, 
will  tell  you  the  particulars,  and  how  prosperously  I  succeeded. 
The  queen  was  uncommonly  condescending  and  gracious,  and 
deigned  to  drink  my  health  when  I  presented  her  with  the  last 
glass,  and  to  thank  me  for  all  my  attentions.  Indeed,  my  mem- 
ory de  la  vieille  cour  was  but  once  in  default.  As  I  had  been 
assured  that  Her  Majesty  would  be  attended  by  her  chamber- 
lain, yet  was  not,  I  had  no  glove  ready  when  I  received  her  at 
the  step  of  her  coach  ;  yet  she  honored  me  with  her  hand  to 
lead  her  up  stairs  ;  nor  did  I  recollect  my  omission  when  I 
led  her  down  again.  Still,  though  gloveless,  I  did  not  squeeze 
the  royal  hand,  as  vice-chamberlain  did  to  Queen  Mary. 


The  last  letter.  T^6  last  letter  from  Horace  Walpole  was  addressed  to 
Lady  Ossory,  then  almost  the  sole  survivor  of  his  early 
friends  : 

MY  DEAR  MADAM  :  You  distress  me  infinitely  by  showing  my 
idle  notes,  which  I  cannot  conceive  can  amuse  anybody.  My 
old-fashioned  breeding  impels  me  every  now  and  then  to  reply 
to  the  letters  you  honor  me  with  writing,  but  in  truth  very 
unwillingly,  for  I  seldom  can  have  anything  particular  to  say  ; 
I  scarce  go  out  of  my  own  house,  and  then  only  to  two  or  three 
private  places,  where  I  see  nobody  that  really  knows  anything, 
and  what  I  learn  comes  from  newspapers,  that  collect  intelli- 
gence from  coffee-houses  ;  consequently  what  I  neither  believe 
nor  report.  At  home  I  see  only  a  few  charitable  elders,  except 
His  retired  life,  about  four-score  nephews  and  nieces  of  various  ages,  who  are 
brought  to  me  about  once  a  year,  to  stare  at  me  as  the  Methu- 
saleh  of  the  family,  and  they  can  speak  only  of  their  contem- 
poraries, which  interest  me  no  more  than  if  they  talked  of  their 
dolls,  or  bats  and  balls.  Must  not  the  result  of  this,  madam, 
make  me  a  very  entertaining  correspondent  ?  And  can  such 
letters  be  worth  showing  ?  or  can  I  have  any  spirit  when  so  old, 
and  am  reduced  to  dictate  ? 

Oh  !  my  good  madam,  dispense  with  me  from  such  a  task, 
and  think  how  it  must  add  to  it  to  apprehend  such  letters  being 
shown.  Pray  send  me  no  more  such  laurels,  which  I  desire  no 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  225 

more  than  their  leaves  when  decked  with  a  scrap  of  tinsel,  and 
stuck  on  twelfth  cakes  that  lie  on  the  shop-boards  of  pastry- 
cooks at  Christmas.  I  shall  be  quite  content  with  a  sprig  of 
rosemary  thrown  after  me,  when  the  parson  of  the  parish  com- 
mits my  dust  to  dust.  Till  then,  pray,  madam,  accept  the 
resignation  of  your  ancient  servant,  ORFORD. 

Walpole  in  1772  was  thus  described  :     His  figure  was 
not  merely  tall,  but  more  properly  lone  and  slender  to    Personal 

_  appearance. 

excess.  His  eyes  were  remarkably  bright  and  pene- 
trating, his  voice  extremely  pleasant.  He  always  en- 
tered a  room  in  that  style  of  affected  delicacy  which 
fashion  had  then  made  almost  natural,  chapeau  has 
between  his  hands,  or  under  his  arm,  knees  bent,  and 
feet  on  tiptoe  as  if  afraid  of  a  wet  floor.  His  dress 
in  summer  was  a  lavender  suit,  the  waistcoat  embroid- 
ered with  a  little  silver,  or  of  white  silk  worked  in  the 
tambour  ;  partridge  silk  stockings,  and  gold  buckles, 
ruffles  and  frills,  generally  lace.  In  summer  no  powder, 
but  his  wig  combed  straight  and  queued  behind,  show- 
ing his  very  smooth  forehead. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BY  the  side  of  Horace  Walpole's  butterfly  existence 
the  even  tenor  of  the  ways  of  Thomas  Gray  is  in  con- 

yvaysof  trast.     His  life  was  passed  in  alternating:  between  Cam- 

Thomas  Gray.          _  r 

bridge  and  Stoke,  where  his  home  was,  West  End 
House,  a  simple  farmstead  of  two  stories,  with  a  rustic 
porch  before  the  front  door.  It  was  here  that  he 
finished  the  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  and 
here  that  he  received  the  visit  which  made  him  write 
"The  Long  Story,"  for  a  long  time  unpublished,  as 
Gray  considered  its  allusions  too  personal  for  the  public. 
It  is,  as  Mr.  Gosse  says,  "  excellent  fooling,"  and  inter- 
esting as  a  picture  of  Gray's  home  life. 

In   his   "Life  of  Gray"   Mr.   Gosse  goes  on   to   tell 
Manuscript         how,  at  the  manor  house  at  Stoke,  Lady  Cobham,  who 

of  the  "  Elegy." 

seems  to  have  known  Horace  Walpole,  read  the  "  Elegy 
in  a  Country  Churchyard"  in  manuscript  before  it  had 
been  many  months  in  existence,  and  conceived  a  violent 
desire  to  know  the  author.  So  quiet  was  Gray,  and  so 
little  inclined  to  assert  his  own  personality,  that  she  was 
unaware  that  he  and  she  had  lived  in  the  same  country 
parish  for  several  years,  until  Rev.  Mr.  Robert  Purt, 
a  Cambridge  fellow,  settled  at  Stoke,  told  her  that 
"thereabouts  there  lurked  a  wicked  imp  they  call  a 
poet."  Mr.  Purt,  however,  enjoyed  a  very  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  Gray  (he  was  offended  shortly  after- 
ward at  the  introduction  of  his  name  into  "The  Long 
Story"  and  very  properly  died  of  small-pox  immedi- 
ately), and  could  not  venture  to  introduce  him  to  her 
ladyship.  Lady  Cobham,  however,  had  a  guest  staying 

226 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  227 

with  her,  a  Lady  Schaub,  who  knew  a  friend  of  Gray's, 
a  Lady  Brown.  On  this  very  meager  introduction 
Lady  Schaub  and  Miss  Speed,  the  niece  of  Lady  Cob- 
ham,  were  persuaded  by  her  ladyship,  who  shot  her  LadyCobham 

3  J  and  her  guest. 

arrow  like  Teucer  from  behind  the  shield  of  Ajax,  to 
call  boldly  upon  Gray.  They  did  so  in  the  summer 
of  1751,  but  when  they  had  crossed  the  fields  to  West 
End  House  they  found  that  the  poet  had  gone  out 
for  a  walk.  They  begged  the  ladies  to  say  nothing  of 
their  visit,  but  they  left  amongst  the  papers  in  Gray's 
study  this  piquant  little  note  :  "  Lady  Schaub' s  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  Gray  ;  she  is  sorry  not  to  have  found  him 
at  home,  to  tell  him  that  Lady  Brown  is  quite  well." 

This  little  adventure  assumed  the  hues  of  mystery  and 
romance  in  so  uneventful  a  life  as  Gray's,  and  curiosity 
combined  with  good  manners  to  make  him  put  his  shy- 
ness in  his  pocket  and  return  Lady  Schaub' s  polite  but 
eccentric  call.  That  far-reaching  spider,  the  Viscountess 
Cobham,  had  now  fairly  caught  him  in  her  web,  and  for 

....  .  Caught  in 

the  remaining  nine  years  of  her  life  she  and  her  niece,  a  Wt;b- 
Miss  Speed,  were  his  fast  friends.  Indeed,  his  whole 
life  might  have  been  altered  if  Lady  Cobham  had  had 
her  way,  for  it  seems  certain  that  she  would  have  been 
highly  pleased  to  have  seen  him  the  husband  of  Harriet 
Speed  and  inheritor  of  the  fortunes  of  the  family.  At 
one  time  Gray  seems  to  have  been  really  frightened  lest 
they  should  marry  him  suddenly,  against  his  will  ;  and 
perhaps  he  almost  wished  they  would.  At  all  events, 
the  only  lines  of  his  which  can  be  called  amatory  were 
addressed  to  Miss  Speed.  She  was  seven  years  his 
junior,  and  when  she  was  nearly  forty  she  married  a 
very  young  French  officer,  and  went  to  live  abroad. 

The  romantic  incidents  of  the  call  just  described  in- 
spired Gray  with  his  fantastic  account  of  them  given  in 


228    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"  The  Long  Story."  He  dwells  on  the  ancient  seat  of 
*ke  Huntingdons  and  Hattons,  from  the  door  of  which 
one  morning  issued 

A  brace  of  warriors,  not  in  buff, 

But  rustling  in  their  silks  and  tissues. 

The  first  came  cap-a-pie  from  France, 
Her  conquering  destiny  fulfilling, 

Whom  meaner  beauties  eye  askance, 
And  vainly  ape  her  art  of  killing. 

The  other  Amazon  kind  Heaven 

Had  armed  with  spirit,  wit,  and  satire  ; 

But  Cobham  had  the  polish  given, 
And  tipped  her  arrows  with  good-nature. 

With  bonnet  blue  and  capuchine, 

And  aprons  long,  they  hid  their  armor  ; 

And  veiled  their  weapons,  bright  and  keen, 
In  pity  to  the  country  farmer. 

These  warriors   sallied   forth  in   the   cause  of  a  lady 

Amazon 

warriors.  of   high    degree,    who    had   just   heard   that  the   parLsh 

contained  a  poet,   and  who 

Swore  by  her  coronet  and  ermine 

She'd  issue  out  her  high  commission 
To  rid  the  manor  of  such  vermin. 

At  last  they  discovered  his  lowly  haunt,  and  bounce  in 
without  so  much  as  a  tap  at  his  door  : 

The  trembling  family  they  daunt, 

They  flirt,  they  sing,  they  laugh,  they  tattle  ; 

Rummage  his  mother,  pinch  his  aunt, 
And  up-stairs  in  a  whirlwind  rattle. 

Each  hole  and  cupboard  they  explore. 

Each  creek  and  cranny  of  his  chamber, 
Run  hurry-scurry  round  the  floor, 

And  o'er  the  bed  and  tester  chamber. 

Into  the  drawers  and  china  pry, 

Papers  and  books,  a  huge  imbroglio  ; 


Horace  \Valpole  and  Gray.  229 

Under  a  teacup  he  might  lie, 
Or  creased,  like  dog's-ears,  in  a  folio. 

The   pitying-    Muses,    however,    have   conveyed    him 
away,  and  the  proud  Amazons  are  obliged  to  retreat  ;   Their  "treat, 
but  they  have  a  malignity  to  leave  a  spell  behind  them, 
which  their  victim   finds  when    he   slinks   back  to   his 

home  : 

The  words  too  eager  to  unriddle 

The  poet  felt  a  strange  disorder  ; 
Transparent  bird-lime  formed  the  middle, 

And  chains  invisible  the  border. 

So  cunning  was  the  apparatus, 

The  powerful  pot-hooks  did  so  move  him, 
That,  will  he  nill  he,  to  the  great  house. 

He  went  as  if  the  devil  drove  him. 

When  he  arrives  at  the  manor  house,  of  course,  he  is 
dragged  before  the  great  lady,  and  is  only  saved  from 
destruction  by  her  sudden  fit  of  clemency  : 

The  ghostly  prudes  with  haggard  face 

Already  had  condemned  the  sinner. 
My  lady  rose,  and  with  a  grace — 

She  smiled,  and  bid  him  come  to  dinner. 

To  show  how  playful  Gray  could  be  on  occasions  the 
delightful  letter  to  Walpole  is  quoted  entire  in  which 
first  appeared  the  lines  ''  on  a  favorite  cat,"  drowned  in 

a  tub  of  gold-fishes. 

Cambridge,  March  i,  1747. 

As  one  ought  to  be  particularly  careful  to  avoid  blunders  in  a 
letter  of  condolence,  it  would  be  a  sensible  satisfaction  to  me, 
before  I  testify  my  sorrow  and  the  sincere  part  I  take  in  your 
misfortune,  to  know  for  whom  it  is  I  lament.  I  knew  Zara  and  tc/VValpole^ 
Selima  (Selima,'  was  it?  or  Fatima?),  or  rather  I  knew  them 
both  together;  for  I  cannot  justly  say  which  was  which.  Then 
as  to  your  "handsome  cat,"  the  name  you  distinguish  her  by, 
I  am  no  less  at  a  loss,  as  well  knowing  one's  handsome  cat  is 
always  the  cat  one  loves  best  ;  or  if  one  be  alive  and  one  dead, 
it  is  usuallv  the  latter  which  is  the  handsomest.  Besides,  if  the 


230    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

point  were  never  so  clear,  I  hope  you  do  not  think  me  so  ill-bred 
or  so  imprudent  as  to  forfeit  all  my  interest  in  the  survivor  ;  oh, 
no  !  I  would  rather  seem  to  mistake,  and  imagine  to  be  sure 
it  must  be  the  tabby  one  that  had  met  with  sad  accident.  Till 
this  matter  is  a  little  better  determined,  you  will  excuse  me  if  I 
do  not  begin  to  cry — "Tempus  inane  peto,  requiem,  spatium- 
que  doloris."  Which  interval  is  the  more  convenient,  as  it 
gives  me  time  to  rejoice  with  you  on  your  new  honors  [Wai- 
pole  had  just  been  elected  F.  R.  S.].  This  is  only  a  beginning  ; 
I  reckon  next  week  we  shall  hear  you  are  a  Freemason. 
Heigh-ho  !  I  feel  (as  you,  to  be  sure,  have  long  since)  that  I 
have  very  little  to  say,  at  least  in  prose.  Somebody  will  be 
the  better  for  it  ;  I  do  not  mean  you,  but  your  cat,  feue 
Mademoiselle  Selime,  whom  I  am  about  to  immortalize  for 
one  week  or  fortnight,  as  follows  : 

Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 

d]ateh  Cf  ahe  Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

favorite  cat.  The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 

The  pensive  Selima  reclined, 

Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  : 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes — 

She  saw  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  beauteous  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 

The  genii  of  the  stream  ; 
Their  scaly  armor's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw  : 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw 

With  many  an  ardent  wish 
She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize — 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 


Horace  Walpole  and  Gray.  231 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent 

Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent,  The  fatal  slip. 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between — 
(Malignant  fate  sat  by  and  smiled) 
The  slipp'ry  verge  her  feet  beguiled  ; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in  ! 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mewed  to  ev'ry  wat'ry  god 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send  : — 
No  dolphin  came,  no  nereid  stirr'd, 
No  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard — 

What  favorite  has  a  friend  ! 

From  hence,  ye  beauties  !  undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold  : 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wand'ring  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold  ! 

Here    is    an     extract    from    Walpole' s     "Castle    of 

/-N  »       ^  i  •  i  •  r   •  "Castle  of 

Otranto.        One  is  enough  to  give  a  hint  of  its  terrors,    otranto." 

Young  Conrad's  birthday  was  fixed  for  his  espousals.  The 
company  was  assembled  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle,  and  every- 
thing ready  for  beginning  the  divine  office,  when  Conrad  him- 
self was  missing.  Manfred,  impatient  of  the  least  delay,  and 
who  had  not  observed  his  son  retire,  despatched  one  of  his  at- 
tendants to  summon  the  young  prince.  The  servant,  who  had 
not  staid  long  enough  to  have  crossed  the  court  to  Conrad's 
apartment,  came  running  back  breathless,  in  a  frantic  manner, 
his  eyes  staring,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth.  He  said  nothing, 
but  pointed  at  the  court.  The  company  were  struck  with 
terror  and  amazement.  The  Princess  Hippolita,  without  know- 
ing what  was  the  matter,  but  anxious  for  her  son,  swooned 
away.  Manfred,  less  apprehensive  than  enraged  at  the  pro- 
crastination of  the  nuptials,  and  at  the  folly  of  his  domestic, 
asked  imperiously  what  was  the  matter?  The  fellow  made  no 
answer,  but  continued  pointing  toward  the  court-yard  ;  and  at 
last,  after  repeated  questions  put  to  him,  cried  out,  "Oh!  the 
helmet  !  the  helmet !  "  In  the  meantime  some  of  the  company 


232    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

had  run  into  the  -court,  from  whence  was  heard  a  confused 
noise  of  shrieks,  horror,  and  surprise.  Manfred,  who  began  to 
be  alarmed  at  not  seeing  his  son,  went  himself  to  get  informa- 
tion of  what  occasioned  this  strange  confusion.  Matilda  re- 
mained, endeavoring  to  assist  her  mother,  and  Isabella  staid 
for  the  same  purpose,  and  to  avoid  showing  any  impatience  for 
the  bridegroom,  for  whom,  in  truth,  she  had  conceived  little 
affection. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Manfred's  eyes  was  a  group  of  his 
The  terrible  servants  endeavoring  to  raise  something  that  appeared  to  him  a 
mountain  of  sable  plumes.  He  gazed  without  believing  his 
sight.  "What  are  ye  doing?"  cried  Manfred  wrathfully ; 
"where  is  my  son?"  A  volley  of  voices  replied,  "Oh!  my 
lord  !  the  prince  !  the  prince  !  the  helmet  !  the  helmet  !  " 
Shocked  with  these  lamentable  sounds,  and  dreading  he  knew 
not  what,  he  advanced  hastily— but  what  a  sight  for  a  father's 
eyes  !  he  beheld  his  child  dashed  to  pieces,  and  almost  buried 
under  an  enormous  helmet,  an  hundred  times  more  large  than 
any  casque  ever  made  for  human  beings,  and  shaded  with  as 
proportionable  number  of  black  feathers. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Horace  Walpole  and  His  World.     L.  B.  Seeley,  M.  A. 

Macaulay's  Essay  on  Horace  Walpole. 

Thomas  Gray.  Edmund  W.  Gosse.  (English  Men  of 
Letters. ) 

Castle  of  Otranto.  Horace  Walpole.  Mrs.  Barbauld's 
British  Novelists,  Vol.  22. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Oliver  Goldsmith.  British  Novelists, 
Vol.  23. 


BOOK  VIII. 
EVELINA  AND  DR.  JOHNSON. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Queen  Anne  Street,  London,  Saturday,  April  sd. 

THIS  moment  arrived.    Just  going  to  Drury  Lane  Theater. 
The  celebrated  Mr.  Garrick  performs  Ranger.     I  am  quite  in 
ecstasy.     So  is  Miss  Mirvan.     How  fortunate  that  he  should   cifa^e'r^of 
happen  to  play  !     We  would  not  let  Mrs.  Mirvan  rest  till  she    "  Evelina." 
consented  to  go.      Her  chief  objection  was  to  our  dress,  for  we 
have  had  no  time  to  Londonize  ourselves  ;  but  we  teased  her 
into  compliance,  and  so  we  are  to  sit  in  some  obscure  place 
that  she  may  not  be   seen.      As  to   me,   I  should  be  alike 
unknown  in  the  most  conspicuous  or  most  private  part  of  the 
house. 

I  can  write  no  more  now.  I  have  hardly  time  to  breathe — 
only  just  this,  the  houses  and  streets  are  not  quite  so  superb 
as  I  expected.  However,  I  have  seen  nothing  yet,  so  I  ought 
not  to  judge. 

Well ;  adieu,  my  dearest  sir,  for  the  present ;  I  could  not  for- 
bear writing  a  few  words  instantly  on  my  arrival,  though  I 
suppose  my  letter  of  thanks  for  your  consent  is  still  on  the 
road. 

Saturday  night. 

O,  my  dear  sir,  in  what  raptures  am  I  returned  !     Well  may 
Mr.  Garrick  be  so  celebrated,  so  universally  admired — I  had    p    , 
not  any  idea  of  so  great  a  performer.  of  Garrick. 

Such  ease  !  such  vivacity  in  his  manner  !  such  grace  in  his 
motions  !  such  fire  and  meaning  in  his  eyes ! — I  could  hardly 
believe  he  had  studied  a  written  part,  for  every  word  seemed 
to  be  uttered  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

His  action — at  once  so  graceful  and  so  free  ! — his  voice — so 
clear,  so  melodious,  yet  so  wonderfully  various  in  its  tones  ! — 
Such  animation  ! — every  look  speaks  ! 


234    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have  had  the  whole  play 
acted  over  again.  And  when  he  danced — O,  how  I  envied 
Clarinda  !  I  almost  wished  to  have  Jumped  on  the  stage  and 
joined  them. 

I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  mad,  so  I  won't  say  any  more  ; 
yet,  I  really  believe  Mr.  Garrick  would  make  you  mad  too  if 
you  could  see  him.  I  intend  to  ask  Mrs.  Mirvan  to  go  to 
the  play  every  night  while  we  stay  in  town.  She  is  extremely 
kind  to  me  ;  and  Maria,  her  charming  daughter,  is  the  sweetest 
girl  in  the  world. 

Garrick  took  leave  of  the  stage  on  the  loth  of  June, 
1776,    one   year  and  a  half  before  the  publication   of 
"Evelina."      Ranger   and    Clarinda   are    characters    in 
"The  Suspicious  Husband,"  a  comedy  by  Dr.   Benja- 
Garnck's  m'n  Hoadley.      Garrick  died  in  1779  ;  with  him,  accord- 

ing to  Dr.  Burney,  "Nature  and  Shakespeare  together 
expired." 

Monday,  April  4th. 

We  are  to  go  this  evening  to  a  private  ball,  given  by  Mrs. 
Stanley,  a  very  fashionable  lady  of  Mrs.  Mirvan's  acquaintance. 

We  have  been  a  shopping,  as  Mrs.  Mirvan  calls  it,  all  this 
morning,  to  buy  silks,  caps,  gauzes,  and  so  forth. 

The  shops  are  very  entertaining,  especially  the  mercers  ;  there 
seem  to  be  six  or  seven  men  belonging  to  each  shop  ;  and 
every  one  took  care,  by  bowing  and  smirking,  to  be  noticed. 
I  thought  I  should  never  have  chosen  a  silk,  for  they  produced 
so  many,  I  knew  not  which  to  fix  upon  ;  and  they  recommended 
them  all  so  strongly,  that  I  fancy  they  thought  I  only  wanted 
persuasion  to  buy  everything  they  showed  me.  And  indeed 
they  took  so  much  trouble  that  I  was  almost  ashamed  I  could 
not. 

I  have  just  had  my  hair  dressed.     You  can't  think  how  oddly 

my  head   feels;  full  of  powder  and  black  pins,  and   a  great 

Pins  and  cushion  on  the  top  of  it.    I  believe  you  would  hardly  know  me, 

for  my  face  looks  quite  different  to  what  it  did  before  my  hair 

was  dressed. 

I  am  half  afraid  of  this  ball  to-night,  for  you  know  I  have 
never  danced  but  at  school  ;  however,  Miss  Mirvan  savs  there  is 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  235 

nothing  in  it.  Adieu,  my  dear  sir.  Poor  Miss  Mirvan  cannot 
wear  one  of  her  caps,  because  they  dress  her  hair  too  large. 

Queen  Anne  Street,  April  5,  Tuesday  morning. 

I  have  a  vast  deal  to  say,  and  shall  give  all  this  morning  to 
my  pen.  As  to  my  plan  of  writing  every  evening  the  adven- 
tures of  the  day,  I  find  it  impracticable  ;  for  the  diversions  here 
are  so  very  late  that  if  I  begin  my  letters  after  them  I  could  not 
go  to  bed  at  all. 

We  passed  a  most  extraordinary  evening.  A  private  ball  this 
was  called,  so  I  expected  to  have  seen  about  four  or  five  A  private  ball, 
couple  ,  but  Lord  !  my  dear  sir,  I  believe  I  saw  half  the  world  ! 
Two  very  large  rooms  were  full  of  company  ;  in  one  were  cards 
for  the  elderly  ladies,  and  in  the  other  were  the  dancers.  My 
mamma  Mirvan,  for  she  always  calls  me  her  child,  said  she 
would  sit  with  Maria  and  me  till  we  were  provided  with  part- 
ners, and  then  join  the  card-players. 

The  gentlemen,  as  they  passed  and  repassed,  looked  as  if 
they  thought  we  were  quite  at  their  disposal,  and  only  waiting 
for  the  honor  of  their  commands  ;  and  they  sauntered  about,  in 
a  careless,  indolent  manner,  as  if  with  a  view  to  keep  us  in  sus- 
pense. I  don't  speak  of  this  in  regard  to  Miss  Mirvan  and 
myself  only,  but  to  the  ladies  in  general  ;  and  I  thought  it  so 
provoking  that  I  determined  in  my  own  mind  that,  far  from 
humoring  such  airs,  I  would  rather  not  dance  at  all  than  with 
any  one  who  should  seem  to  think  me  ready  to  accept  the  first 
partner  who  would  condescend  to  take  me. 

Not  long  after,  a  young  man  who  had  for  some  time  looked 

...        i  •    J     r         r  A  4.-    *         The  {°P  Lovel. 

at  us  with  a  kind  of  negligent  impertinence  advanced  on  tiptoe 

toward  me  ;  he  had  a  set  smile  on  his  face,  and  his  dress  was  so 
foppish  that  I  really  believe  he  even  wished  to  be  stared  at ; 
and  yet  he  was  very  ugly. 

Bowing  almost  to  the  ground  with  a  sort  of  swing  and  wav- 
ing his  hand  with  the  greatest  conceit,  after  a  short  and  silly 
pause,  he  said,  "  Madam — may  I  presume?" — and  stopt,  offer- 
ing to  take  my  hand.  I  drew  it  back,  but  could  scarce  forbear 
laughing.  "Allow  me,  madam,"  continued  he,  affected  by 
breaking  off  every  half  moment,  "the  honor  and  happiness — if 
I  am  not  so  unhappy  as  to  address  you  too  late — to  have  the 
happiness  and  honor — 

Again  he  would  have  taken  my  hand,  but,  bowing  my  head,  I 


236    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Lord  Orville. 


Evelina's 
Slyness. 


begged  to  be  excused,  and  turned  to  Miss  Mirvan  to  conceal 
my  laughter.  He  then  desired  to  know  if  I  had  already 
engaged  myself  to  some  more  fortunate  man  ?  I  said,  No, 
and  that  I  believed  I  should  not  dance  at  all.  He  then  re- 
treated. 

Very  soon  after  another  gentleman  who  seemed  about  six 
and  twenty  years  old,  gaily  but  not  foppishly  dressed,  and 
indeed  extremely  handsome,  with  an  air  of  mixed  politeness 
and  gallantry  desired  to  know  if  I  was  engaged,  or  would 
honor  him  with  my  hand. 

Well,  I  bowed,  and  I  am  sure  I  colored — for  indeed  I  was 
frightened  at  the  thoughts  of  dancing  before  so  many  people  all 
strangers,  and,  which  was  worse,  with  a  stranger.  But  he  took 
my  hand,  and  led  me  to  join  in  the  dance. 

The  minuets  were  over  before  we  arrived,  for  we  were  kept 
late  by  the  milliners  making  us  wait  for  our  things. 

He  seemed  very  desirous  of  entering  into  conversation  with 
me  ;  but  I  could  hardly  speak  a  word,  and  nothing  but  shame 
prevented  my  returning  to  my  seat  and  declining  to  dance  at  all. 

He  appeared  to  be  surprised  at  my  terror,  which  I  believe 
was  but  too  apparent  :  however,  he  asked  no  questions,  though 
I  fear  he  must  think  it  very  strange,  for  I  did  not  choose  to  tell 
him  it  was  owing  to  my  never  before  dancing  but  with  a 
school-girl. 

His  conversation  was  sensible  and  spirited  ;  his  air  and  ad- 
dress were  open  and  noble  ;  his  manners  gentle,  attentive,  and 
infinitely  engaging ;  his  person  is  all  elegance,  and  his  coun- 
tenance the  most  animated  and  expressive  I  have  ever  seen. 

In  a  short  time  we  were  joined  by  Miss  Mirvan,  who  stood 
next  couple  to  us.  But  how  was  I  startled  when  she  whispered 
me  that  my  partner  was  a  nobleman  !  This  gave  me  a  new 
alarm  :  how  will  he  be  provoked,  thought  I,  when  he  finds 
what  a  simple  rustic  he  has  honored  with  his  choice  !  one 
whose  ignorance  of  the  world  makes  her  perpetually  fear  doing 
something  wrong ! 

That  he  should  be  so  much  my  superior  every  way  quite  dis- 
concerted me  ;  and  you  will  suppose  my  spirits  were  not  much 
raised  when  I  heard  a  lady,  in  passing  us,  say,  "This  is  the 
most  difficult  dance  I  ever  saw." 

"O  dear,  then,"  cried  Maria  to  her  partner,  "with  your 
leave,  I'll  sit  down  till  the  next." 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson. 


237 


Unintentional 
rudeness. 


Consequent  em- 
barrassment. 


"So  will  I  too,  then,"  cried  I,  "for  I  am  sure  I  can  hardly 
stand." 

"  But  you  must  speak  to  your  partner  first,"  answered  she  ; 
for  he  had  turned  aside  to  talk  with  some  gentlemen.  How- 
ever, I  had  not  sufficient  courage  to  address  him  ;  and  so  away 
we  all  three  tript  and  seated  ourselves  at  another  end  of  the 
room. 

This  brought  Evelina  into  difficulties,  for  her  partner 
was  seeking  for  her,  and  before  long  found  and  ap- 
proached her. 

He  begged  to  know  if  I  was  not  well  ?  You  may  easily  im- 
agine how  much  I  was  embarrassed.  I  made  no  answer  ;  but 
hung  my  head  like  a  fool  and  looked  on  my  fan. 

He  then,  with  an  air  the  most  respectfully  serious,  asked 
if  he  had  been  so  unhappy  as  to  offend  me  ? 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  cried  I  ;  and  in  hopes  of  changing  the  dis- 
course, and  preventing  his  further  inquiries,  I  desired  to  know 
if  he  had  seen  the  young  lady  who  had  been  conversing 
with  me  ? 

No  ; — but  would  I  honor  him  with  any  commands  to  her  ? 

"  O,  by  no  means  !  " 

Was  there  any  other  person  with  whom  I  wished  to  speak  ? 

I  said  No,  before  I  knew  I  had  answered  at  all. 

Should  he  have  the  pleasure  of  bringing  me  any  refreshment  ? 

I  bowed,  almost  involuntarily.     And  away  he  flew. 

I  was  quite  ashamed  of  being  so  troublesome,  and  so  much    Gallantry  of 
above  myself  as  these  seeming  airs   made  me  appear  ;    but   Lord  Orville. 
indeed  I  was  too  much  confused  to   think   or  act  with  any 
consistency. 

If  he  had  not  been  as  swift  as  lightning,  I  don't  know  whether 
I  should  not  have  stolen  away  again  ;  but  he  returned  in  a 
moment.  When  I  had  drank  a  glass  of  lemonade,  he  hoped, 
he  said,  that  I  would  again  honor  him  with  my  hand,  as  a  new 
dance  was  just  begun.  I  had  not  the  presence  of  mind  to  say  a 
single  word,  and  so  I  let  him  once  more  lead  me  to  the  place  I 
had  left. 

When  the  dance  was  over,  seeing  me  still  very  much  flurried, 
he  led  me  to  a  seat,  saying  that  he  would  not  suffer  me  to 
fatigue  myself  from  politeness. 


238    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

We  were  sitting  in  this  manner,  he  conversing  with  all  gaiety, 
I  looking  down  with  all  foolishness,  when  that  fop,  his  name 
was  Lovel,  who  had  first  asked  me  to  dance,  with  a  most 
ridiculous  solemnity  approached,  and,  after  a  profound  bow  or 
two,  said,  "I  humbly  beg  pardon,  madam — and  of  you  too,  my 
The  fop  again,  lord — for  breaking  in  upon  such  agreeable  conversation — which 
must,  doubtless,  be  more  delectable — than  what  I  have  the 
honor  to  offer — but — ' ' 

I  interrupted  him — I  blush  for  my  folly — with  laughing  ;  yet  I 
could  not  help  it ;  for,  added  to  the  man's  stately  foppishness 
(and  he  actually  took  snuff  between  every  three  words),  when  I 
looked  round  at  Lord  Orville,  I  saw  such  extreme  surprise 
in  his  face,  the  cause  of  which  appeared  so  absurd  that  I 
could  not  for  my  life  preserve  my  gravity. 

I  had  not  laughed  before  from  the  time  I  had  left  Miss 
Mirvan,  and  I  had  much  better  have  cried  then  ;  Lord  Orville 
actually  stared  at  me  ;  the  beau,  I  know  not  his  name,  looked 
quite  enraged.  "Refrain — madam,"  said  he,  with  an  important 
air,  "a  few  moments  refrain  ! — I  have  but  a  sentence  to  trouble 
you  with. — May  I  know  to  what  accident  I  must  attribute  not 
having  the  honor  of  your  hand  ?  " 

"  Accident,  sir  !  "  repeated  I,  much  astonished. 

"Yes,  accident,  madam;  —  for  surely — -I  must  take  the 
liberty  to  observe — pardon  me,  madam  —  it  ought  to  be  no 
common  one — that  should  tempt  a  lady — so  young  a  one  too — 
to  be  guilty  of  ill  manners." 

A  confused  idea  now  for  the  first  time  entered  my  head, 
of  something  I  had  heard  of  the  rules  of  an  assembly ;  but 
I  was  never  at  one  before — I  have  only  danced  at  school — and 
so  giddy  and  heedless  I  was,  that  I  had  not  once  considered 
Rules  of  an  the  impropriety  of  refusing  one  partner  and  afterward  accepting 
another.  I  was  thunderstruck  at  the  recollection  :  but,  while 
these  thoughts  were  rushing  into  my  head,  Lord  Orville,  with 
some  warmth,  said,  "This  lady,  sir,  is  incapable  of  meriting 
such  an  accusation!" 

Evelina,  indeed,  had  showed  ignorance  of  the  first 
rules  of  politeness,  and  Lord  Orville,  later,  had  some 
trouble  with  Lovel,  the  fop,  but  it  occasioned  no  serious 
difficulty. 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  239 

The  creature — for  I  am  very  angry  with  him — made  a  low 
bow,  and  with  a  grin  the  most  malicious  I  ever  saw,  "My 
lord,"  said  he,  "far  be  it  from  me  to  accuse  the  lady  for  having 
the  discernment  to  distinguish  and  prefer  the  superior  attrac- 
tions of  your  lordship." 

Again  he  bowed  and  walked  off. 

Was  ever  anything  so  provoking  ?  I  was  ready  to  die  with 
shame.  "What  a  coxcomb  !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Orville  ;  while 
I,  without  knowing  what  I  did,  rose  hastily,  and  moving  off,  "  I 
can't  imagine,"  cried  I,  "where  Mrs.  Mirvan  has  hid  herself!" 

"Give  me  leave  to  see,"  he  answered.  He  returned  in  a 
moment,  and  told  me  that  Mrs.  Mirvan  was  at  cards  but  would 
be  glad  to  see  me,  and  I  went  immediately.  There  was  but 
one  chair  vacant ;  so,  to  my  great  relief,  Lord  Orville  presently 
left  us.  In  a  short  time,  however,  he  returned.  I  consented 
with  the  best  grace  I  could  to  go  down  another  dance,  for  Another  dance. 
I  had  had  time  to  recollect  myself ;  for  it  occurred  to  me  that, 
insignificant  as  I  was,  compared  to  a  man  of  his  rank  and 
figure,  still  as  he  had  chosen  me  for  a  partner,  why,  I  should 
endeavor  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

After  the  dance,  tired,  ashamed,  and  mortified,  I  begged  to 
sit  down,  and  soon  after  we  returned  home.  Lord  Orville  did 
me  the  honor  to  hand  me  to  the  coach.  Oh,  these  fashionable 
people  ! 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


Vulgar  con- 
nections. 


Invitation  to 
the  opera. 


ALTHOUGH  Evelina  was  thus  introduced  into  very 
good  society  in  London  she  had  to  associate  with  some 
dreadfully  vulgar  relations,  or  at  least  connections,  her 
second  cousins,  the  Branghtons  ;  she  was  obliged  to  be 
civil  to  them  on  account  of  their  aunt,  who  was  her 
grandmother,  an  underbred  little  old  French  woman, 
Madame  Duval.  Evelina  was  portionless,  and  it  was 
hoped  that  Madame  Duval  might  make  her  heiress  of 
her  considerable  fortune. 

One  evening,  while  Miss  Mirvan  and  Evelina  were 
dressing  for  the  opera  in  high  spirits,  a  carriage  was 
heard  to  stop  at  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  their 
chamber  door  was  flung  open,  and  they  saw  the  two 
Miss  Branghtons  enter  the  room. 

"  We're  come  to  take  you  to  the  opera,  Miss  ;  papa  and  my 
brother  are  below,  and  we  are  to  call  for  your  grandmama  as 
we  go  along." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  I,  "  that  you  should  have  taken 
so  much  trouble,  as  I  am  engaged  already." 

"  Engaged  !  Lord,  Miss,  never  mind  that,"  cried  the  young- 
est ;  "this  young  lady  will  make  your  excuses  I  dare  say  ;  it's 
only  doing  as  one  would  be  done  by,  you  know." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,"  said  Miss  Mirvan,  "  I  shall  myself  be  very 
sorry  to  be  deprived  of  Miss  Anville's  company  this  evening." 

"Well,  Miss,  that  is  not  so  very  good-natured  in  you,"  said 
Miss  Branghton,  "considering  we  only  come  to  give  our  cousin 
pleasure  ;  it's  no  good  to  us  ;  it's  all  upon  her  account ;  for  we 
came,  I  don't  know  how  much  round  about  to  take  her  up." 

"I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you,"  said  I,  "and  very  sorry 
you  have  lost  so  much  time  ;  but  I  cannot  possibly  help  it,  for 
I  engaged  myself  without  knowing  you  would  call." 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  241 

"  Lord,  what  signifies  that?"  said  Miss  Polly,  "you're  no  old 
maid,  and  so  you  needn't  be  so  very  formal  ;  besides,  I  dare 
say  those  you  are  engaged  to  a'n't  half  so  near  related  to  you 
as  we  are." 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  press  me  any  further,  for  I  assure  you 
it  is  not  in  my  power  to  attend  you." 

"Why,  we  came  all  out  of  the  city  on  purpose  ;  besides,  your 
grandmama  expects  you  ; — and,  pray,  what  are  we  to  say  to 
her?" 

"Tell  her,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  much  concerned — but  that 
I  am  pre-engaged." 

"  And  who  to  ?  "  demanded  the  abrupt  Miss  Branghton. 

"To  Mrs.  Mirvan — and  a  large  party." 

"  And,  pray,  what  are  you  all  going  to  do,  that  it  would  be 
such  a  mighty  matter  for  you  to  come  along  with  us  ?  " 

"  \Ve  are  all  going  to — to  the  opera." 

"  O  dear,  if  that  be  all,  why  can't  we  go  altogether?" 

I  was  extremely  disconcerted  at  this  forward  and  ignorant 

"  Ignorant 

behavior,  and  yet  their  rudeness  very  much  lessened  my  con-   behavior. 

cern  at  refusing  them.  Indeed,  their  dress  was  such  as  would 
have  rendered  their  scheme  of  accompanying  our  party  imprac- 
ticable, even  if  I  had  desired  it ;  and  this,  as  they  did  not  them- 
selves find  it  out,  I  was  obliged,  in  terms  the  least  mortifying  I 
could  think  of,  to  tell  them. 

They  were  very  much  chagrined,  and  asked  where  I  should 
sit. 

"  In  the  pit,"  answered  I. 

"In  the  pit!"  repeated  Miss  Branghton;  "well,  really,  I 
must  own,  I  should  never  have  supposed  that  my  gown  was  not 
good  enough  for  the  pit ;  but  come,  Polly,  let's  go  ;  if  Miss 
does  not  think  us  fine  enough  for  her,  why  to  be  sure  she  may 
choose." 

Surprised  at  this  ignorance,  I  would  have  explained  to  them 
that  the  pit  at  the  opera  required  the  same  dress  as  the  boxes  ; 
but  they  were  so  much  affronted  they  would  not  hear  me  ;  and, 
in  great  displeasure,  left  the  room,  saying  they  would  not  have 
troubled  me,  only  they  thought  I  should  not  be  so  proud  with 
my  own  relations,  and  that  they  had  at  least  as  good  a  right 
to  my  company  as  strangers. 

I  endeavored  to  apologize,  and  would  have  sent  a  long  mes- 
sage to  Madame  Duval  ;  but  they  hastened  away  without 


242    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

listening  to  me  ;  and   I  could  not  follow  them  down  stairs, 
because  I  was  not  dressed.      The  last  words  I  heard  them  say 

Madame  Duval   were,  "Well,  her  grandmama  will  be  in  a  fine  passion,  that's 
in  a  passion.  ,  .,  •        , . 

one  good  thing. 

And  sure  enough,  while  they  were  sitting  at  tea  the 
old  lady  burst  in  furious,  and  insisted  on  carrying 
Evelina  off  with  her. 

When  we  came  to  her  lodgings,  we  found  all  the  Branghtons 
in  the  passage,  impatiently  waiting  for  us  with  the  door  open. 

"  Only  see,  here's  Miss  !  "  cried  the  brother. 

"Well,  I  declare,  I  thought  as  much!"  said  the  younger 
sister. 

"Why,  Miss!"  said  Mr.  Branghton,  "I  think  you  might  as 
well  have  come  with  your  cousins  at  once  ;  it's  throwing 
money  in  the  dirt  to  pay  two  coaches  for  one  fare." 

"  Lud,  father,"  cried  the  son,  "make  no  words  about  that 
for  I'll  pay  for  the  coach  that  Miss  had." 

While  this  passed  the  Miss  Branghtons  were  examining  my 
dress,  which,  indeed,  was  very  improper  for  my  company,  and 
as  I  was  extremely  unwilling  to  be  so  conspicuous  amongst 
them,  I  requested  Madame  Duval  to  borrow  a  hat  or  bonnet  for 
me  of  the  people  of  the  house.  But  she  never  wears  either 
herself,  and  thinks  both  very  English  and  barbarous,  therefore 
she  insisted  that  I  should  go  full  dressed,  as  I  had  prepared 
myself  for  the  pit,  though  I  made  many  objections. 

If  I  had  not  been  too  much  chagrined  to  laugh,  I  should  have 
been  diverted  at  their  ignorance  of  whatever  belongs  to  an 
opera.  They  could  not  tell  at  what  door  we  ought  to  enter 
and  wandered  about  for  some  time  without  knowing  which 
way  to  turn. 

Mr.  Branghton  refused  to  pay  half  a  guinea  a  piece 
for  tickets  to  the  pit,  so  they  finally  found  themselves  in 
the  gallery,  where  their  amazement  and  disappointment 
became  general.  For  a  few  instants  they  looked  at  one 
another  without  speaking,  and  then  they  all  broke 
silence  at  once. 

One-shilling  "Lord,    papa,"    exclaimed    Miss    Polly,    "why,    you    have 

brought  us  to  the  one-shilling  gallery  !  " 


Evelina,  and  Dr.  Johnson. 


243 


They  continued  to  express  their  dissatisfaction  till  the  cur- 
tain drew  up,  after  which  their  observations  were  very  curious. 
They  made  no  allowance  for  the  customs,  or  even  for  the  lan- 
guage, of  another  country  ;  but  formed  all  their  remarks  upon 
comparisons  with  the  English  theater. 

Notwithstanding  my  vexation  at  having  been  forced  into 
a  party  so  very  disagreeable,  and  that,  too,  from  one  so  much 
— so  very  much — the  contrary,  yet,  would  they  have  suffered 
me  to  listen,  I  should  have  forgotten  everything  unpleasant, 
and  felt  nothing  but  delight  in  hearing  the  sweet  voice  of  voice  of 
Signer  Millico,  the  first  singer  ;  but  they  tormented  me  with   Signer  Millico. 
continual  talking. 

"What  a  jabbering  they  make!"  cried  Mr.  Branghton, 
"there's  no  knowing  a  word  they  say.  Pray,  what's  the 
reason  they  can't  as  well  sing  in  English  ? — but  I  suppose  the 
fine  folks  would  not  like  it,  if  they  could  understand  it." 

"  How  unnatural  their  action  is  !  "  said  the  son  ;  "  why,  now, 
who  ever  saw  an  Englishman  put  himself  in  such  out-of-the- 
way  postures? " 

"For  my  part,"  said  Miss  Polly,  "I  think  it's  very  pretty, 
only  I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

"Lord,  what  does  that  signify?"  cried  her  sister;  "mayn't 
one  like  a  thing  without  being  so  very  particular  ?  You  may 
see  that  Miss  likes  it,  and  I  don't  suppose  she  knows  more 
of  the  matter  than  we  do." 

A  gentleman,  soon  after,  was  so  obliging  as  to  make  room  in 
the  front  row  for  Miss  Branghton  and  me.  We  had  no  sooner 
seated  ourselves  than  Miss  Branghton  exclaimed,  "Good 
gracious  !  only  see  ! — why,  Polly,  all  the  people  in  the  pit  are 
without  hats,  dressed  like  anything  !  " 

"Lord,  so  they  are,"  cried  Miss  Polly;  "well,  I  never  saw 
the  like  ! — it's  worth  coming  to  the  opera,  if  one  saw  nothing 
else." 

When  the  curtain  dropped  they  all  rejoiced.  Miss  Branghton 
looking  at  me  declared  that  she  was  not  genteel  enough  to  ad- 
mire it.  Miss  Polly  confessed  that  if  they  would  but  sing  English 
she  would  like  it  very  well.  The  brother  wished  he  could  raise 
a  riot  in  the  house,  because  then  he  might  get  his  money  again. 
And  finally  they  all  agreed  it  was  monstrous  dear. 

This  seems  to  us  poor  fun,  but  it  was  the  delight  of 


Comments  of 
the  cousins. 


244    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Marylebone 
Garden. 


Fireworks. 


all  London.      Dr.  Johnson  loved  his   Branghtons,   and 
considered  them  a  wonderful  piece  of  work. 

Another  time  Evelina  went  with  these  same  cousins  to 
Marylebone  Garden.  Pepys  had  walked  in  it,  and  John 
Sheffield,  Duke  of  Buckingham  ;  and  here  it  was  also 
that  Mrs.  Fountain,  the  famous  beauty  of  her  day,  was 
once  saluted  by  Dick  Turpin,  who  said,  "  Be  not 
alarmed,  madam,  you  may  now  boast  that  you  have 
been  kissed  by  Turpin." 

This  garden,  as  it  is  called,  is  neither  striking  for  magnifi- 
cence nor  for  beauty  ;  and  we  were  all  so  dull  and  languid, 
that  I  was  extremely  glad  when  we  were  summoned  to  the 
orchestra,  upon  the  opening  of  a  concert  ;  in  the  course  of 
which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  concerto  on  the  violin  by 
Mr.  Barthelemon,  who  to  me  seems  a  player  of  exquisite  fancy, 
feeling,  and  variety. 

When  notice  was  given  us  that  the  fireworks  were  preparing, 
we  hurried  along  to  secure  good  places  for  the  sight ;  but  very 
soon  we  were  so  encircled  and  incommoded  by  the  crowd  that 
Mr.  Smith  proposed  the  ladies  should  make  interest  for  a  form 
to  stand  upon  :  this  was  soon  effected  :  and  the  men  then  left 
us  to  accommodate  themselves  better  ;  saying  they  would  re- 
turn the  moment  the  exhibition  was  over. 

The  firework  was  really  beautiful ;  and  told,  with  wonderful 
ingenuity,  the  story  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  :  but  at  the 
moment  of  the  fatal  look  which  separated  them  forever  there 
was  such  an  explosion  of  fire,  and  so  horrible  a  noise,  that  we 
all,  as  of  one  accord,  jumpt  hastily  from  the  form,  and  ran 
away  some  paces,  fearing  that  we  were  in  danger  of  mischief, 
from  the  innumerable  sparks  of  fire  which  glittered  in  the  air. 

Mr.  Smith  was  lodger  on  the  first  floor  in  the  house 
inhabited  by  the  Branghtons.  They  thought  him  very 
fine  ;  he  soon  fell  a  victim  to  Evelina's  charms. 

Another  day  they  went  in  a  hackney  coach  to  Picca- 
dilly, 

and  then  had  a  walk  through  Hyde  Park  ;  which  in  any  other 
company  would  have  been  delightful.     I    was  much  pleased 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  245 

with  Kensington  Gardens,  and  think  them  infinitely  preferable 
to  those  of  Vauxhall. 

Young  Branghton  was  extremely  troublesome  ;  he  insisted 
upon  walking  by  my  side,  and  talked  with  me  almost  by 
compulsion.  Once,  indeed,  when  I  was  accidentally  a  few 
yards  before  the  rest,  he  said,  "  I  suppose,  Miss,  aunt  has  told 
you  about — you  know  what? — ha'n't  she,  Miss  ? " 

Madame  Duval  planned  a  match  between  Evelina  and 
young  Branghton,  and  as  she  had  money  to  leave,  the 
plan  was  encouraged  by  all  her  cousins. 

While  we  were  strolling  round  the  garden,  I  perceived,  walk- 
ing with  a  party  of  ladies  at  some  distance,  Lord  Orville  !     I   thefdistan'ce! 
instantly  retreated  behind  Miss  Branghton,  and   kept  out  of 
sight  till  we  had  passed  him  ;  for  I  dreaded  being  seen  by  him 
again  in  a  public  walk  with  a  party  of  which  I  was  ashamed. 

Happily  I  succeeded  in  my  design,  and  saw  no  more  of  him  ; 
for  a  sudden  and  violent  shower  of  rain  made  us  all  hasten  out 
of  the  gardens.  We  ran  till  we  came  to  a  small  green-shopi 
where  we  begged  shelter.  Here  we  found  ourselves  in  com- 
pany with  two  footmen,  whom  the  rain  had  driven  into  the 
shop.  Their  livery  I  thought  I  had  before  seen  ;  and,  upon 
looking  from  the  window,  I  perceived  the  same  upon  a  coach- 
man belonging  to  a  carriage  which  I  immediately  recollected 
to  be  Lord  Orville's. 

Fearing  to  be  known,  I  whispered  Miss  Branghton  not  to 

speak  my  name.     Had  I  considered  but  a  moment,  I  should    Unwise 

caution, 
have  been  sensible  of  the  inutility  of  such  a  caution,  since  not 

one  of  the  party  call  me  by  any  other  appellation  than  that  of 
Cousin  or  of  Hfiss  ;  but  I  am  perpetually  involved  in  some  dis- 
tress or  dilemma  from  my  own  heedlessness. 

This  request  excited  very  strongly  her  curiosity  :  and  she 
attacked  me  with  such  eagerness  and  bluntness  of  inquiry  that 
I  could  not  avoid  telling  her  the  reason  of  my  making  it,  and, 
consequently,  that  I  was  known  to  Lord  Orville  :  an  acknowl- 
edgment which  proved  the  most  unfortunate  in  the  world  ;  for 
she  would  not  rest  till  she  had  drawn  from  me  the  circum- 
stances attending  my  first  making  the  acquaintance.  Then,  « 

calling  to  her  sister,  she  said,  "Lord,  Pollv,  only  think  !     Miss    jMiss,ha?, 

danced  with  a 

has  danced  with  a  lord  !  lord  !  " 


246    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


A  coronet- 
coach. 


Evelina  almost 
in  tears. 


"Well,"  cried  Polly,  "that's  a  thing  I  should  never  have 
thought  of!  And  pray,  Miss,  what  did  he  say  to  you  ? " 

This  question  was  much  sooner  asked  than  answered  ;  and 
they  both  became  so  very  inquisitive  and  earnest  that  they 
soon  drew  the  attention  of  Madame  Duval  and  the  rest  of  the 
party ;  to  whom,  in  a  very  short  time,  they  repeated  all  they 
had  gathered  from  me. 

"Goodness,  then,"  cried  young  Branghton,  "  if  I  was  Miss, 
if  I  would  not  make  free  with  his  lordship's  coach,  to  take  me 
to  town." 

"Why,  ay,"  said  the  father,  "there  would  be  some  sense  in 
that ;  that  would  be  making  some  use  of  a  lord's  acquaintance, 
for  it  would  save  us  coach-hire." 

"  Lord,  Miss,"  cried  Polly,  "  I  wish  you  would  ;  for  I  should 
like  of  all  things  to  ride  in  a  coronet-coach." 

"I  promise  you,"  said  Madame  Duval,  "I'm  glad  you've 
thought  of  it,  for  I  don't  see  no  objection  ;— so  let's  have  the 
coachman  called." 

"Not  for  the  world,"  cried  I,  very  much  alarmed  ;  "indeed, 
it  is  utterly  impossible." 

"Why  so  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Branghton  ;  "  pray,  where's  the 
good  of  your  knowing  a  lord  if  you're  never  the  better  for 
him  ? " 

"Ma  foi,  child,"  said  Madame  Duval,  "you  don't  know  no 
more  of  the  world  than  if  you  was  a  baby.  Pray,  sir  (to  one  of 
the  footmen),  tell  that  coachman  to  draw  up,  for  I  wants  to 
speak  to  him." 

To  the  despair  of  Evelina  a  footman  ran  to  ask  the 
permission  of  his  lordship. 

He  returned  in  a  few  minutes  ;  and,  bowing  to  me  with  the 
greatest  respect,  said,  "  My  lord  desires  his  compliments,  and 
his  carriage  will  be  always  at  Miss  Anville's  service." 

I  was  so  much  affected  by  this  politeness,  and  chagrined  at 
the  whole  affair,  that  I  could  scarce  refrain  from  tears.  Madame 
Duval  and  the  Miss  Branghtons  eagerly  jumped  into  the  coach, 
and  desired  me  to  follow.  I  would  rather  have  submitted  to 
the  severest  punishment ;  but  all  resistance  was  vain. 

During  the  whole  ride  I  said  not  a  word  ;  however,  the  rest 
of  the  party  were  so  talkative  that  my  silence  was  very  imma- 
terial. We  stopped  at  our  lodgings  ;  but  when  Madame  Duval 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  247 

and  I  alighted,  the  Branghtons  asked  if  they  could  not  be  car- 
ried on  to  Snow  Hill  ?  The  servants,  now  all  civility,  made  no 
objection.  Remonstrances  from  me  would,  I  too  well  knew,  be 
fruitless  ;  and  therefore,  with  a  heavy  heart,  retired  to  my  own 
room  and  left  them  to  their  own  direction. 

There  was  further  trouble,  for  going  up  Snow  Hill  the 
coach  came  up  against  a  cart  with  a  jog  that  almost 
pulled  the  wheel  off,  and  young  Branghton,  inobservant 
of  the  glass  being  up,  poked  his  head  through  the 
window.  Probably  Lord  Orville's  coach  had  never  be-  Broken  glass, 
fore  been  seen  in  so  vulgar  a  part  of  London  as  "the 
city." 

The  viaduct  from  Holborn  has  made  people  forget  the 
steepness  of  Snow  Hill,  down  which  Mohocks  in  Queen 
Anne's  time  used  to  amuse  themselves  by  rolling  de- 
fenseless women  in  barrels.  Gay,  in  "Trivia,"  writes  : 

Who  has  not  heard  the  scorner's  midnight  fame  ? 
Who  has  not  trembled  at  the  Mohock's  name  ? 
I  pass  their  desperate  deeds,  and  mischief  done, 
Where  from  Snow  Hill  black  steepy  torrents  run, 
How  matrons,  hooped  within  the  hogshead's  womb, 
Were  tumbled  furious  thence. 

This  is  the  last  we  shall  see  of  the  Branghtons,  for 
Madame  Duval,  upon  discovering  an  old  beau  she  con-   Branghtons!  e 
sidered  her  own  at  the  feet  of  Evelina,  fell  into  a  rage, 
and  swore  to  take  no  further  interest  in  her  affairs  unless 
she  would  instantly  agree  to  marry  young  Branghton. 

This  of  course  was  out  of  the  question,  and  what- 
ever expectations  of  advantage  from  Madame  Duval 
had  been  entertained  by  Evelina's  well-wishers  being 
now  at  an  end,  Evelina  returned  to  her  guardian, 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Villars,  an  excellent  clergyman, 
who  had  been  the  tutor  of  Evelina's  grandfather,  Mr. 
Evelyn  (hence  her  name).  Mr.  Evelyn,  after  the  death 
of  his  first  (and  lovely)  wife,  foolishly  married  Madame 


248    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Duval,  who  was  then  a  waiting  girl  at  a  tavern.  He 
survived  this  second  marriage  only  two  years,  a  period 
quite  long  enough  to  reveal  to  him  that  this  second  wife 
Antecedents  was  no  siu'table  guardian  for  the  daughter  left  him  by 
the  first.  He  bequeathed  his  daughter,  therefore,  to  the 
care  of  Villars,  who  brought  her  up  tenderly,  strangely 
enough  to  be  later  called  upon  to  perform  the  same 
offices  for  her  daughter,  Evelina,  the  granddaugh- 
ter of  his  pupil  and  friend.  As  Evelina  was  an  orphan, 
poor  and  nameless,  it  was  thought  advisable  if  possible 
to  make  up  the  long  quarrel  with  Madame  Duval,  her 
grandmother,  and  this  was  one  reason  why  she  was 
allowed  to  go  to  London. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IT  was  rather  hard  on  old  Mr.  Villars,  after  having 
the    charge    of   Evelyn's    daughter   during   her   youth,    R      ... 
again  to  find  himself,  through  circumstances  which  hap-   Villars. 
pened  before  the  beginning  of  the  book,  burdened  with 
the  responsibility  of  another  girl  to  be  educated,  but  he 
did  not  shirk  the  obligation. 

Mr.  Villars  writes  to  Evelina  : 

Berry  Hill,  July  jth. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  my  darling  Evelina,  to  the  arms 
of  the  truest,  the  fondest  of  your  friends  !  Mrs.  Clinton  [a 
trusty  old  housekeeper],  who  shall  hasten  to  you  with  these 
lines,  will  conduct  you  directly  hither  ;  for  I  can  consent  no 
longer  to  be  parted  from  the  child  of  my  bosom  ! — the  comfort 
of  my  age  ! — the  sweet  solace  of  all  my  infirmities  ! 

I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  many  comments  to  make  upon 
your  late  letters,  some  parts  of  which  give  me  no  little  uneasi- 
ness ;   but  I  will  reserve  my  remarks  for  our  future  conver- 
sations.    Hasten,  then,  to  the  spot  of  thy  nativity,  the  abode  of 
thy  youth,  where  never  yet  care  or  sorrow  had  power  to  annoy    His  tenderness 
thee.     O  that  they  might  ever  be  banished  this  peaceful  dwell-   for  Evelina. 
ing. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Evelina  !  I  pray  but  that  thy  satisfaction 
at  our  approaching  meeting  may  bear  any  comparison  with 

mine  ! 

ARTHUR  VILLARS. 

Evelina  was  now  at  home,  but  her  correspondent, 
Miss  Mirvan  (the  book  is  all  in  letters),  chides  her  with 
a  lack  of  her  usual  liveliness.  In  time  the  cause  of  her 
evident  depression  conies  to  light. 

I  know  not  how  to  come  to  the  point ;  twenty  times  have  I 
attempted  it  in  vain  ; — but  I  \\'A\  force  myself  to  proceed. 

249 


250    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Oh,  Miss  Mirvan,  could  you  ever  have  believed  that  one  who 
Depression  of  seemed  formed  as  a  pattern  for  his  fellow-creatures,  as  a  model 
of  perfection — one  whose  elegance  surpassed  all  description — 
whose  sweetness  of  manners  disgraced  all  comparison ; — oh, 
Miss  Mirvan,  could  you  ever  have  believed  that  Lord  Orville 
would  have  treated  me  with  indignity  ? 

Never,  never  again  will  I  trust  to  appearances  ;— rnever  con- 
fide in  my  own  weak  judgment ; — never  believe  that  person  to 
be  good  who  seems  to  be  amiable  !  What  cruel  maxims  are  we 
taught  by  a  knowledge  of  the  world  ! — But  while  my  own  re- 
flections absorb  me,  I  forget  you  are  still  in  suspense. 

I  had  just  finished  the  last  letter  which  I  wrote  to  you  from 
London  when  the  maid  of  the  house  brought  me  a  note.  It 
was  given  to  her,  she  said,  by  a  footman,  who  told  her  he 
would  call  the  next  day  for  an  answer. 

This  note — but  let  it  speak  for  itself. 

"  To  Miss  ANVILLE  :  With  transport,  most  charming  of  thy 
Its  cause.  seX)  did  I  read  the  letter  with  which  you  yesterday  morning 

favored  me.  I  am  sorry  the  affair  of  the  carriage  should  have 
given  you  any  concern,  but  I  am  highly  flattered  by  the  anxiety 
you  express  so  kindly.  Believe  me,  my  lovely  girl,  I  am  truly 
sensible  of  the  honor  of  your  good  opinion,  and  feel  myself 
deeply  penetrated  with  love  and  gratitude.  The  correspon- 
dence you  have  so  sweetly  commenced  I  shall  be  proud  of  con- 
tinuing ;  and  I  hope  the  strong  sense  I  have  of  the  favor  you  do 
me  will  prevent  your  withdrawing  it.  Assure  yourself  that  I 
desire  nothing  more  ardently  than  to  pour  forth  my  thanks  at 
your  feet,  and  to  offer  those  vows  which  are  so  justly  the 
tribute  of  your  charms  and  accomplishments.  In  your  next  I 
intreat  you  to  acquaint  me  how  long  you  shall  remain  in  town. 
The  servant,  whom  I  shall  commission  to  call  for  an  answer, 
has  orders  to  ride  post  with  it  to  me.  My  impatience  for  his 
arrival  will  be  very  great,  though  inferior  to  that  with  which  I 
burn  to  tell  you,  in  person,  how  much  I  am,  my  sweet  girl,  your 
grateful  admirer,  "ORVJLLE." 

Evelina's  letter  was  a  note  hastily  written  to  Lord 
Orville  in  her  anguish  on  hearing  the  injury  caused  to 
his  coach,  by  the  carelessness  of  her  cousins.  She  had 
given  it  to  the  maid  to  post. 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  251 

Her  first  impression  on  reading  his  note  was  one  of 
delight. 

Unsuspicious  of  any  impropriety  from  Lord  Orville,  I  per- 
ceived not  immediately  the  impertinence  it  implied — I  only  First 

,     j  .1  .  ,.  .  .  j  j  T  1      emotions, 

marked  the  expressions  of  his  own  regard  ;  and  I  was  so  much 

surprised  that  I  was  unable  for  some  time  to  compose  myself, 
or  read  it  again  : — I  could  only  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
repeating  to  myself,  "Good  God,  is  it  possible? — am  I  then 
loved  by  Lord  Orville  ?  ' ' 

But  this  dream  was  soon  over,  and  I  awoke  to  far  different 
feelings.  Upon  a  second  reading  I  thought  every  word  changed 
— it  did  not  seem  the  same  letter — I  could  not  find  one  sentence 
that  I  could  look  at  without  blushing  :  my  astonishment  was 
extreme,  and  it  was  succeeded  by  the  utmost  indignation. 

If,  as  I  am  very  ready  to  acknowledge,  I  erred  in  writing  to 
Lord  Orville,  was  it  for  him  to  punish  the  error  ?  If  he  was  of- 
fended, could  he  not  have  been  silent  ?  If  he  thought  my  letter 
ill-judged,  should  he  not  have  pitied  my  ignorance  ?  have  con- 
sidered my  youth,  and  allowed  for  my  inexperience  ? 

Evelina's  depression  of  spirits  could  not  fail  to  attract 
the  anxious  attention  of  her  kind  guardian.  She  writes  : 

Mr.  Villars  himself  was  grave,  and  I  had  not  sufficient  spirits  .  . 
to  support  a  conversation  merely  by  my  own  efforts.  As  soon  Mr.  Villars. 
as  dinner  was  over,  he  took  a  book,  and  I  walked  to  the  win- 
dow. I  believe  I  remained  near  an  hour  in  this  situation.  All 
my  thoughts  were  directed  to  considering  how  I  might  dispel 
the  doubts  which  I  apprehended  Mr.  Villars  had  formed,  with- 
out acknowledging  a  circumstance  which  I  had  suffered  so 
much  pain  merely  to  conceal.  But  while  I  was  thus  planning 
for  the  future,  I  forgot  the  present  ;  and  so  intent  was  I  upon 
the  subject  which  occupied  me  that  the  strange  appearance  of 
my  unusual  inactivity  and  extreme  thoughtfulness  never  oc- 
curred to  me.  But  when,  at  last,  I  recollected  myself  and 
turned  round,  I  saw  that  Mr.  Villars,  who  had  parted  with  his 
book,  was  wholly  engrossed  in  attending  to  me.  I  started  from 
my  reverie,  and,  hardly  knowing  what  I  said,  asked  if  he  had 
been  reading  ? 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  "  Yes,  my  child — a 
book  that  both  afflicts  and  perplexes  me." 


252    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

He  means  me,  thought  I  ;  and  therefore  I  made  no  answer. 

"What  if  we  read  it  together?"  continued  he,  "will  you 
assist  me  to  clear  its  obscurity  ?  " 

"  If — if  you  please  ; — I  believe — "  said  I,  stammering. 

"Well,  then,  my  love,  I  was  thinking  of  the  regret  it  was 
natural  you  should  feel  upon  quitting  those  from  whom  you  had 
Evelina's  received  civility  and  kindness,  with  so  little  certainty  of  ever 

seeing  them  again,  or  being  able  to  return  their  good  offices. 
These  are  circumstances  that  afford  but  melancholy  reflections 
to  young  minds  ;  and  the  affectionate  disposition  of  my  Evelina, 
open  to  all  social  feelings,  must  be  hurt  more  than  usual  by 
such  considerations. — You  are  silent,  my  dear.  Shall  I  name 
those  whom  I  think  most  worthy  the  regret  I  speak  of?  We 
shall  then  see  if  our  opinions  coincide." 

Still  I  said  nothing,  and  he  continued. 

"  In  your  London  journal,  nobody  appears  in  a  more  amiable, 
a  more  respectable  light  than  Lord  Orville ;  and  perhaps — 

"  I  knew  what  you  would  say,"  cried  I  hastily,  "  and  I  have 
long  feared  where  your  suspicions  would  fall  ;  but  indeed,  sir, 
you  are  mistaken  ;  I  hate  Lord  Orville — he  is  the  last  man  in 
the  world  in  whose  favor  I  should  be  prejudiced." 

I  stopped  ;  for  Mr.  Villars  looked  at  me  with  such  infinite 
surprise  that  my  own  warmth  made  me  blush. 

"  You  hate  Lord  Orville  !  "  repeated  he. 

I  could  make  no  answer ;  but  took  from  my  pocket-book  the 
showrHn1"  letter,  and  giving  it  to  him,  "  See,  sir,"  said  I,  "  how  differently 

explanation.  the  same  man  can  talk  and  write  !  " 

He  read  it  three  times  before  he  spoke  ;  and  then  said,  "I 
am  so  much  astonished  that  I  know  not  what  I  read.  When 
had  you  this  letter  ? " 

I  told  him.  Again  he  read  it,  and,  after  considering  its  con- 
tents some  time,  said,  "  I  can  form  but  one  conjecture  concern- 
ing this  most  extraordinary  performance  ;  he  must  certainly 
have  been  intoxicated  when  he  wrote  it." 

"Lord  Orville  intoxicated!"  repeated  I;  "once  I  thought 
him  a  stranger  to  all  intemperance  ; — but  it  is  very  possible,  for 
I  can  believe  anything  now." 

"  That  a  man  who  had  behaved  with  so  strict  a  regard  to 
delicacy,"  continued  Mr.  Villars,  "  and  who,  as  far  as  occasion 
had  allowed,  manifested  sentiments  the  most  honorable,  should 
thus  insolently,  thus  wantonly,  insult  a  modest  young  woman, 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  253 

in  his  perfect  senses,  I  cannot  think  possible.  But,  my  dear, 
you  should  have  enclosed  this  letter  in  an  empty  cover,  and 
have  returned  it  to  him  again  ;  such  a  resentment  would  at  once 
have  become  your  character,  and  have  given  him  an  opportu- 
nity, in  some  measure,  of  clearing  his  own.  He  could  not  well 
have  read  this  letter  the  next  morning  without  being  sensible 
of  the  impropriety  of  having  written  it." 

Excellent  Mr.  Villars  !  Here  shines  the  man  of  the 
world,  as  well  as  the  solicitous  guardian.  But  what  a 
world,  when  such  an  explanation  of  an  ungentlemanly 
action  should  be  possible  but  satisfactory  !  Of  course 
Evelina  had  not  thought  of  returning  the  letter.  The 
good  old  gentleman  further  provided  for  the  well-being 
of  his  Evelina  by  sending  her  to  Bristol  Hot-wells,  with 
his  friend,  Mrs.  Selwyn,  by  her  cordial  invitation. 

The  Hot-wells  of  Bristol,  which  have  been  known  for 

riji  .  ,  ,,         Hot-wells  of 

tour  hundred  years,  enjoyed  a  great  reputation  in  the  Bristol, 
days  of  Evelina,  now  completely  out-lived.  The  situa- 
tion of  "Clifton  Downs"  is  mentioned  in  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  "Waste  Not,  Want  Not,"  as  well  as  in  the 
books  of  our  period.  It  is  extremely  picturesque  ;  the 
Avon  here  flows  through  a  deep  gorge  now  crossed  by 
a  suspension  bridge.  "St.  Vincent's  Rocks"  and 
"The  Giant's  Cave"  and  "Nightingale  Valley"  are 
names  remaining  from  the  fashionable  era  of  the  locality. 
There  is,  and  doubtless  was  in  Evelina's  time,  a  plateau 
dotted  with  fine  trees  and  the  villas  of  well-to-do  citi- 
zens of  Bristol. 

Evelina  writes  : 

Bristol  Hot-ivells,  August  zSth. 

You  will  be  again  surprised,  my  dear  Maria,  at  seeing  whence 
I  date  my  letter  :  but  I  have  been  very  ill,  and  Mr.  Villars  was 
so  much  alarmed  that  he  not  only  insisted  upon  my  accom- 
panying Mrs.  Selwyn  hither,  but  earnestly  desired  she  would 
hasten  her  intended  journey. 


254    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

We  traveled  very  slowly,  and  I  did  not  find  myself  so  much 
fatigued  as  I  expected.  We  are  situated  upon  a  most  delightful 
A  delightful  spot ;  the  prospect  is  beautiful,  the  air  pure,  and  the  weather 
very  favorable  to  invalids.  I  am  already  better,  and  I  doubt 
not  but  I  shall  soon  be  well  ;  as  well,  in  regard  to  mere  health, 
as  I  wish  to  be. 

Here  she  passed  a  fortnight  so  quiet,  so  serene,  that 
it  gave  her  reason  to  expect  a  settled  calm,  but  lo  !  who 
should  arrive  upon  the  scene  but  Lord  Orville,  to  wait 
upon  his  very  pretty  sister,  Lady  Louisa  Larpent. 
Whereon  her  next  letter  to  Mr.  Villars  begins  : 

Oh.  sir,  Lord  Orville  is  still  himself!  still  what,  from  the  mo- 
Lord  Orville  '        '  .  . 
himself  again,      ment  I  beheld,  I  believed  him  to  be — all  that  is  amiable  in 

man  !  and  your  happy  Evelina,  restored  at  once  to  spirits  and 
tranquillity,  is  no  longer  sunk  in  her  own  opinion,  nor  discon- 
tented with  the  world  ; — no  longer,  with  dejected  eyes,  sees  the 
prospect  of  passing  her  future  days  in  sadness,  doubt,  and  sus- 
picion ! — with  revived  courage  she  now  looks  forward,  and  ex- 
pects to  meet  with  goodness,  even  among  mankind  : — though 
still  she  feels,  as  strongly  as  ever,  the  folly  of  hoping,  in  any 
second  instance,  to  meet  with  perfection. 

Your  conjecture  was  certainly  right ;  Lord  Orville,  when  he 
wrote  that  letter,  could  not  be  in  his  senses.  Oh,  that  intem- 
perance should  have  power  to  degrade  so  low  a  man  so  noble  ! 

This    brother   and    sister,    Lord    Orville    and    Lady 
Louisa,  were  staying  with  Mrs.  Beaumont,  at  her  beau- 
tiful home  upon  Clifton   Hill  ;  fortunately  Mrs.  Sehvyn 
knew  Mrs.  Beaumont,  and  so,  with  Evelina,  she  waited 
mont 'Garden      uPon  her  at  once.      They  were  invited  into  the  garden. 

We  had  not  walked  long  ere,  at  a  distance,  I  perceived  Lord 
Orville,  who  seemed  just  dismounted  from  his  horse,  enter  the 
garden.  All  my  perturbation  returned  at  the  sight  of  him  ! — 
yet  I  endeavored  to  repress  every  feeling  but  resentment.  As 
he  approached  us,  he  bowed  to  the  whole  party  ;  but  I  turned 
away  my  head  to  avoid  taking  any  share  in  his  civility.  Ad- 
dressing himself  immediately  to  Mrs.  Beaumont,  he  was  begin- 
ning to  inquire  after  his  sister  :  but,  upon  seeing  my  face,  he 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  255 

suddenly  exclaimed,  "Miss  Anville  ! "  and  then  he  advanced 
and  made  his  compliments  to  me — not  with  an  air  of  vanity  or 
impertinence,  nor  yet  with  a  look  of  consciousness  or  shame  ; 
— but  with  a  countenance  open,  manly,  and  charming  ! — with  a 
smile  that  indicated  pleasure,  and  eyes  that  sparkled  with 
delight ! — on  my  side  was  all  that  consciousness  ;  for  by  him,  I 
really  believe,  the  letter  was,  at  that  moment,  entirely  forgotten. 

With  what  politeness  did  he  address  me  !  with  what  sweet- 
ness did  he  look  at  me  !  the  very  tone  of  his  voice  seemed  flat-   The  same  old 
tering !   he   congratulated   himself  upon   his   good   fortune  in    charm- 
meeting  with  me  ; — hoped  I  should  spend  some  time  in  Bristol, 
and  inquired,  even  with  anxiety  inquired,  if  my  health  was  the 
cause  of  my  journey  ;  in  which  case  his  satisfaction  would  be 
converted  into  apprehension. 

Vet,  struck  as  I  was  with  his  manner,  and  charmed  to  find 
him  such  as  he  was  wont  to  be,  imagine  not,  my  dear  sir,  that 
I  forgot  the  resentment  I  owe  him,  or  the  cause  he  has  given 
me  of  displeasure  ;  no,  my  behavior  was  such  as  I  hope,  had 
you  seen,  you  would  not  have  disapproved  :  I  was  grave  and 
distant  ;  I  scarce  looked  at  him  when  he  spoke,  or  answered 
him  when  he  was  silent. 

As  he  must  certainly  observe  this  alteration  in  my  conduct, 
I  think  it  could  not  fail  making  him  both  recollect  and  repent 
the  provocation  he  had  so  causelessly  given  me  ;  for  surely  he 
was  not  so  wholly  lost  to  reason  as  to  be  now  ignorant  he  had 
ever  offended  me. 

I  may  as  well  here  explain  that  Lord  Orville  never 
wrote  the  offending'  letter  at  all.  It  was  a  piece  of  malice60 
malice  on  the  part  of  Sir  Clement  Willoughby,  another 
admirer,  who  was  in  fact  the  villain  no  self-respecting 
novel  in  those  days  could  be  without.  Sir  Clement  had 
intercepted  Evelina's  note  on  its  way  to  the  post, 
opened  it,  and  answered  it  in  the  manner  we  have  seen. 
This  all  came  out  later. 

Lord  Orville  was  beloved  not  only  by  Evelina  but  by 
all  Miss  Barney's  readers  ;  the  world  accepted  him  more   lover. 
readily  even  than  it  did  Sir  Charles.     He  was  the  pattern- 
lover  of  all  the  voun<j-  ladies  of  that  generation.    I  am  fond 


256    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

of  him  myself.  He  was  evidently  a  gentleman,  for  even 
the  reproach  of  over-drinking  is  removed  from  him.  No 
doubt  Evelina's  conduct  at  their  first  ball  amused  him, 
and  he  may  have  begun  the  acquaintance  with  a  certain 
condescending  pity  for  the  country  girl,  but  instead  of 
being  disgusted  by  the  vulgarity  of  her  companions,  his 
real  kindness  of  heart  seems  to  have  led  him  to  protect 
her,  at  first  with  no  other  motive  than  that  of  good- 
breeding  ;  but  her  simplicity  and  vivacity  and  especially 
her  sincerity  created  a  warmer  feeling,  which  perhaps 
was  increased  by  her  coldness  of  manner,  for  which 
there  appeared  to  him  to  be  no  reasonable  ground. 

But  these  little  matters  were  easily  straightened  out, 
Complications     and  here  the  book  might  end,  but  for  the  mystery  of 

cleared  up.  _,.,,.,  .  .  ... 

•Evelina  s  birth,  and  a  quantity  of  complications  on  side 
issues  I  have  not  thought  worth  while  to  mention,  which 
have  to  be  cleared  up.  Mrs.  Beaumont  invited  them  to 
Clifton.  "Here  I  am,  my  dear  sir,"  writes  Evelina, 
"under  the  same  roof,  an  inmate  of  the  same  house  as 
Lord  Orville." 

Sir  John  Belmont,  who  appears  on  the  scene  at  Clifton, 
was  the  father  of  Evelina.  Having  abandoned  his  wife 
not  long  after  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  he  had  always 
refused  to  believe  that  Evelina  was  his  child,  having 
been  convinced  by  the  wicked  Dame  Green,  Evelina's 
first  nurse,  that  another  young  lady  bore  that  title.  All 
these  difficulties  are  now  overcome,  the  father's  heart 
Evelina  softened,  Evelina  recognized.  Lord  Orville' s  time  was 

recognized.  . 

come.  Before  leaving  Mrs.  Beaumont's,  on  the  last 
day  of  Evelina's  visit,  they  all  went  after  dinner  to  the 
drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Selwyn  said  she  must  prepare   for  her  journey,   and 
begged  me  to  see  for  some  books  she  had  left  in  the  parlor. 
And  here  while   I  was  looking  for  them,  I  was  followed  by 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  257 

Lord  Orville.    He  shut  the  door  after  he  came  in,  and  said,  "  Is 
this  true,  Miss  Anville,  are  you  going?  " 

Miss  Anville  was  the  name  borne  by  Evelina  during 
her  life  while  her  father  refused  to  recognize  her. 

"  I  believe  so,  my  lord,"  said  I,  still  looking  for  the  books. 

"  So  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly  must  I  lose  you  ? " 

"No  great  loss,  my  lord,"  cried  I,  endeavoring  to  speak 
cheerfully. 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  he  gravely,  "Miss  Anville  can  doubt 
my  sincerity?  " 

"I  can't  imagine,"  cried  I,  "what  Mrs.  Selwyn  has  done 
with  these  books." 

"Would  to  heaven,"  continued  he,  "I  might  flatter  myself 
you  would  allow  me  to  prove  it !  " 

"  I  must  run  up  stairs,"  cried  I,  greatly  confused,  "  and  ask 
what  she  has  done  with  them." 

"  You  are  going,  then,"  cried  he,  taking  my  hand,  "and  you- 
give  me  not  the  smallest  hope  of  your  return  ! — will  you  not, 
then,  my  too  lovely  friend  ! — will  you  not,  at  least,  teach  me, 
with  fortitude  like  your  own,  to  support  your  absence?" 

"  My  lord,"  cried  I,  endeavoring  to  disengage  my  hand, 
"pray  let  me  go  !  " 

"I  will,"  cried  he,  to  my  inexpressible  confusion  dropping 
on  one  knee,  "  if  you  wish  to  leave  me  !  " 

"Oh,  my  lord,"  exclaimed  I,  "rise,  I  beseech  you,  rise  ! — 
such  a  posture  to  me  ! — surely  your  lordship  is  not  so  cruel  as  to 
mock  me  !  " 

"Mock  you!"  repeated  he  earnestly,  "no,  I  revere  you!  I 
esteem  and  I  admire  you  above  all  human  beings  !  you  are  the 
friend  to  whom  my  soul  is  attached  as  to  its  better  half !  you 
are  the  most  amiable,  the  most  perfect  of  women  !  and  you  are 
dearer  to  me  than  language  has  the  power  of  telling." 

I  attempt  not  to  describe  my  sensations  at  that  moment  ;  I 
scarce  breathed  ;  I  doubted  if  I   existed — the  blood  forsook    EvelhVa!"  ' 
my  cheeks,  and  my  feet  refused  to  sustain  me  ;  Lord  Orville, 
hastily  rising,  supported  me   to  a  chair,  upon  which  I   sunk, 
almost  lifeless. 

For  a  few  minutes  we  neither  of  us  spoke  ;  and  then  seeing 
me  recover,  Lord  Orville,  though  in  terms  hardly  articulate, 
entreated  my  pardon  for  his  abruptness.  The  moment  my 


258    Me?t  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

strength  returned,  I  attempted  to  rise,  but  he  would  not  per- 
mit me.     .     . 

His  protestations,  his  expressions,  were  too  flattering  for 
repetition  ;  he  drew  from  me  the  most  sacred  secret  of  my 
heart. 

still  upon  his  He  was  still  upon  his  knees  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs. 

Selwyn  entered. 

I  snatched  my  hand  from  Lord  Orville ;  he,  too,  started  and 
rose,  and  Mrs.  Selwyn  stood  facing  us  in  silence. 

"At  last,  my  lord,"  said  she  sarcastically,  "have  you  been 
so  good  as  to  help  Miss  Anville  look  for  my  books  ?  " 

"Yes,  madam,"  answered  he,  attempting  to  rally,  "and 
I  hope  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  find  them." 

"Your  lordship  is  extremely  kind,"  said  she  drily,  "but  I 
can  by  no  means  consent  to  take  up  any  more  of  your  time." 
Then  looking  on  the  window-seat,  she  presently  found  the 
books,  and  added,  "  Come,  here  are  just  three  ;  this  important 
affair  may  give  employment  to  us  all."  She  then  presented 
one  of  them  to  Lord  Orville,  another  to  me,  and  taking  a  third 
herself,  with  a  most  provoking  look  she  left  the  room. 

He  detained  Evelina  for  a  few  natural  questions,  which 
he  offered  with  much  delicacy,  thus  : 

"My  lord,  I  can  stay  no  longer — Mrs.  Selwyn  will  lose 
all  patience." 

"Deprive  her  not  of  the  pleasure  of  her  conjectures — but  tell 
me,  are  you  under  Mrs.  Selwyn's  care  ?  " 

"  Only  for  the  present,  my  lord." 

An  important  "Not  a  few  are  the  questions  I  have  to  ask  Miss  Anville: 

question.  among   them,    the   most   important  is,    whether   she   depends 

wholly  on  herself,   or  whether  there  is  any  other  person  for 
whose  interest  I  must  solicit?" 

This  was  surely  a  mild  manner  of  finding'  out  whether 
she  had  any  father,  or  even  any  name  to  speak  of.  She 
replied  : 

"  I  hardly  know,  my  lord;  I  hardly  know  myself  to  whom  I 
most  belong." 

"  Suffer,  suffer  me  then,"  cried  he  with  warmth,  "to  hasten 
the  time  when  your  grateful  Orville  may  call  you  all  his  own  !  " 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  259 

The  subject  of  the  improper  letter  was  cleared  up 
before  they  parted.  Her  note  he  had  never  received, 
never  answered,  as  he  assured  her  in  the  most  solemn 
manner. 

It  was  now  settled  by  all  the  advisers  and  guardians   Marriage  to 

take  place  at 

that  the  marriage  should  take  place  at  once.  °"ce. 

Lord  Orville  executed  his  utmost  eloquence  to  reconcile  me 
to  this  hasty  plan  ;  but  how  was  I  startled  when  he  told 
me  that  next  Tuesday  was  the  day  appointed  by  my  father  to 
be  the  most  important  of  my  life  ! 

But  she  consented,  with  great  sweetness,  although  she 
must  have  had  in  mind  the  long  delays  imposed  by 
Harriet  Byron  upon  her  suitor  under  similar  circum- 
stances. 

The  next   morning,   as  soon   as   breakfast  was   over, 
Lord  Orville  went  to  wait  upon   her  father,    while  she    ^efauferVith 
went  to  walk  with  Mrs.  Beaumont  and  the  rest. 

Lord  Orville  was  not  long  absent  :  he  joined  us  in  the  garden 
with  a  look  of  gaiety  and  good  humor  that  revived  us  all. 
"  You  are  just  the  party,"  said  he,  "  I  wished  to  see  together. 
Will  you,  madam  (taking  my  hand),  allow  me  the  honor  of 
introducing  you,  by  your  real  name,  to  two  of  my  nearest 
relations?  Mrs.  Beaumont,  give  me  leave  to  present  to  you 
the  daughter  of  Sir  John  Belmont,  a  young  lady  who,  I  am 
sure,  must  lung  since  have  engaged  your  esteem  and  admira- 
tion, though  you  were  a  stranger  to  her  birth." 

Sir  John's  settlements  were  perfectly  satisfactory  ;  in 
fact,  he  was  so  delighted  with  his  real  daughter,  now  he 
had  found  her,  that  he  was  most  amiable.  And  now  it 
ends.  There  is  no  thought  of  going  to  Berry  Hill  to  be 
married,  and  no  account  whatever  of  the  wedding,  but 
the  good  Villars  is  asked  for  his  consent.  He  replies  :  v'marTagain 

Every  wish  of  my  soul  is  now  fulfilled — for  the  felicity  of  my 
Evelina  is  equal  to  her  worthiness  ! 

Yes,  my  child,  thy  happiness  is  engraved  in  golden  charac- 


260    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

ters  upon  the  tablets  of  my  heart  ;  and  their  impression  is 
indelible :  for,  should  the  rude  and  deep-searching  hand  of 
misfortune  attempt  to  pluck  them  from  their  repository,  the 
fleeting  fabric  of  life  would  give  way ;  and  in  tearing  from  my 
vitals  the  nourishment  by  which  they  are  supported,  she  would 
but  grasp  at  a  shadow  insensible  to  her  touch. 

Give  thee  my  consent? — Oh,  thou  joy,  comfort,  and  pride 
of  my  life,  how  cold  is  that  word  to  express  the  fervency  of  my 
approbation  !  Yes,  I  do  indeed  give  thee  my  consent ;  and  so 
thankfully,  that,  with  the  humblest  gratitude  to  providence,  I 
would  seal  it  with  the  remnant  of  my  days. 

Hasten  then,  my  love,  to  bless  me  with  thy  presence,  and  to 
receive  the  blessings  with  which  my  fond  heart  overflows  ! 

The  story  ends  thus  : 

LETTER  LXXXIV. 
EVELINA  TO  THE  REV.  MR.  VILLARS. 

All  is  over,  my  dearest  sir  ;  and  the  fate  of  your  Evelina  is 
Close  of  the  decided!  This  morning,  with  fearful  joy  and  trembling  grati- 
book.  tude,  she  united  herself  forever  with  the  object  of  her  dearest, 

her  eternal  affection. 

I  have  time  for  no  more  ;  the  chaise  now  waits  which  is  to 
conduct  me  to  dear  Berry  Hill,  and  to  the  arms  of  the  best 
of  men. 

EVELINA. 

Throughout  the  book  there  is  a  good  deal  of  horse- 
play, which  I  have  here  left  out  entirely,  between  Ma- 
dame Duval  and  Captain  Mirvan,  and  between  Captain 
Mirvan  and  the  fop  named  Lovel,  whose  conduct  was 
shown  in  the  first  chapter.  I  dislike  this  feature  in  the 
book,  and  it  is  altogether  unsuited  to  the  modern  taste  ; 
but  it  was  to  such  scenes  that  ' '  Evelina ' '  owed  its  first 
popularity. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THIS  was  the  novel  which  created  such  a  sensation 
when  it  first  appeared  anonymously  in  London  in  1778. 

1  r.  J  ''          Fanny  Burney. 

In  her  diary,  which  Fanny  Burney  began  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  she  thus  records  the  event  : 

This  year  was  ushered  in  by  a  grand  and  most  important 
event !  At  the  latter  end  of  January  the  literary  world  was 
favored  with  the  first  publication  of  the  ingenious,  learned,  and 
most  profound  Fanny  Burney  !  I  doubt  not  but  this  memorable 
affair  will,  in  future  times,  mark  the  period  whence  chronolo- 
gers  will  date  the  zenith  of  the  polite  arts  in  this  island  ! 

This  admirable  authoress  has  named  her  most  elaborate  per- 
formance, "Evelina;  or,  A  Young  Lady's  Entrance  into  the 
World." 

The  manuscript  was  secretly  sent  to  a  publisher,  by 
the  way  of  a  frolic  of  the  young  people,  and  rather  to 
the  surprise  of  the  young  author  accepted. 

Frances  Burney,  who  was  born  in  June,  1752,  had  a 
happy  childhood  and  youth  in  her  London  home,  in  ^udhood.and 
Poland  Street,  where  Dr.  Burney  lived  with  his  several 
children,  in  an  atmosphere  of  reading,  music,  and  intel- 
ligent occupation.  The  house  was  full  of  books  ;  and 
people  who  talked  about  them  easily  came  and  went, 
for  Dr.  Burney' s  miscellaneous  society  included  eminent 
men  in  literature  not  only  English,  but  many  accom- 
plished foreigners,  and  the  house  was  a  place  where  such 
people  liked  to  come  and  were  welcome.  By  the  time 
Fanny  was  fourteen  she  had,  it  is  said,  studied  many  of 
the  best  authors  of  her  father's  library ,  of  which  she  had  . 

-  '  Her  father's 

the  uncontrolled  range.      Whether  she  had  or  not,  she  library- 


262     Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

was  familiar  with  the  backs  of  these  books,  which  is 
something  in  itself,  implying  a  sense  of  acquaintance  and 
familiarity  with  great  authors,  just  as  a  child  feels  at 
home  with  the  grown  people  about  him,  without  having 
very  much  conversation  with  them.  Dr.  Burney's 
second  wife,  Fanny's  step-mother,  brought  into  the 
family  several  children  by  her  former  marriage  who  had 
been  always  friends  and  playmates  of  the  young  Bur- 
neys.  These  all  went  to  live  with  them  in  St.  Martin' s 
Street,  making  a  large  and  congenial  circle.  Among 
the  names  of  the  friends  who  used  to  assemble  round 

Society  at  their  tea-table  and  join  their  simple  early  suppers  could 

be  found  all  the  interesting  literary,  musical,  and  artistic 
people  of  their  time.  London  was  smaller  than  it  is  now, 
and  the  literary  and  intelligent  people  found  each  other 
readily. 

Fanny,  one  of  the  younger  ones,  used  to  sit  and 
listen  or  watch,  then  slip  away  and  write  for  her  own 
amusement  in  a  little  play-room  there  was  up  t\vo  pairs 
of  stairs,  where  the  toys  of  the  little  children  were  lying 
round.  This  pursuit  was  a  secret  ;  only  her  sister  Susan 
was  in  it,  until  the  new  mother,  discovering  the  prac- 
tice, was  worried  about  it,  and  in  a  friendly  manner 
advised  little  Fanny  to  give  it  up.  The  female  writer  of 
novels  and  romances  was  at  that  time  in  but  poor  repute 
in  the  literary  world,  and  Mrs.  Burney  was  probably 
right  from  her  point  of  view. 

The  good  little  girl  was  so  wrought  upon  in  her  sense 
of  duty  and  obedience  that  she  resolved  to  make  an 
auto  dc  fe  of  all  her  manuscripts,  and,  if  possible,  to 
throw  away  her  pen.  Seizing,  therefore,  an  oppor- 
tunity when  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Burney  were  from  home,  she 

I'.urninji  her        made  over  to  a  bonfire  in  a  paved  play-court  her  whole 

manuscripts.  .          .  .   .  .  ..          '       .    ....... 

stock  oi  prose  compositions,  while  her  laithml  Susanna 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  263 

stood  by,  weeping  at  the  conflagration.  Among  the 
works  thus  immolated  was  one  tale  of  considerable 
length,  the  "  History  of  Caroline  Evelyn,"  the  mother 
of  Evelina. 

This  sacrifice  was  made  in  the  young  authoress's  fif- 
teenth year,  and  for  some  weeks  she  probably  adhered 
to  her  resolution  of  composing  no  more  works  of  fiction, 
and  began,  perhaps  as  a  less  objectionable  employment, 
the  journal  which  she  continued  during  so  many  years. 
But  the  perennial  fountain  could  not  be  restrained  ;  her  Fa  ,s 
imagination  was  haunted  by  the  singular  situations  ' '  to  imagination, 
which  Caroline  Evelyn's  infant  daughter  might  be  ex- 
posed, from  the  unequal  birth  by  which  she  hung  sus- 
pended between  the  elegant  connections  of  her  mother 
and  the  vulgar  ones  of  her  grandmother  ' ' ;  thus  present- 
ing contrasts  and  mixtures  of  society  so  unusual,  yet, 
under  the  supposed  circumstances,  so  natural,  that  irre- 
sistibly, and  almost  unconsciously,  the  whole  story  of 
"  Evelina  ;  or,  A  Young  Lady's  Entrance  into  the 
World,"  was  pent  up  in  the  inventor's  memory  ere  a 
paragraph  was  committed  to  paper. 

Writing  was  to  her  always  more  difficult  than  com- 
posing, because  her  time  and  her  pen  found  ample 
employment  in  transcribing  for  her  father,  who  was 
occupied  at  every  spare  moment  with  preparations  for 
his  great  work,  "  The  General  History  of  Music." 

In  the  summer  of  1770  Fanny  obtained  several  months 

r    1    •  f         1  i-  1  •    •  TA         Absence  of 

of  leisure  for  her  own  studies  and  compositions,  as  Dr.  Dr.  Bumey. 
Burney  then  set  out  on  a  solitary  tour  through  France 
and  Italy,  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  materials  for  his 
history  ;  but  on  his  return  in  the  spring  of  1771  she 
was  employed  as  his  principal  amanuensis,  in  preparing 
the  minutes  of  his  tour  for  the  press.  All  his  daughters, 
however,  shared  in  this  service,  copying-  his  numerous 


264    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

manuscripts,  tracing  over  and  over  again  the  same  page 
when  his  nicety  of  judgment  suggested  alterations  ; 
while  their  patient  and  affectionate  assiduity  brought  its 
own  reward,  in  the  extension  of  knowledge  and  im- 
provement of  taste  which  accrued  from  such  labors. 

Before  she  consented  to  prepare  her  manuscript  for 

publication,    a   difficulty  occurred,   for  she   felt   a  con- 

A  conscientious  scientious  scruple  whether  it  would  be  right  to  allow  her- 

scruple. 

self  such  an  amusement  unknown  to  her  father.  She 
had  never  taken  any  important  step  without  his  sanction, 
and  had  now  refrained  from  asking  it  through  confusion 
at  acknowledging  her  authorship  and  dread  of  his  desir- 
ing to  see  her  performance.  However,  in  this,  as  in 
every  instance  during  her  life,  she  no  sooner  saw  what 
was  her  duty  than  she  honestly  performed  it.  Seizing, 
therefore,  an  opportunity  when  her  father  was  away 
somewhere,  she  avowed  to  him,  with  many  blushes, 
"  her  secret  little  work,  and  her  odd  inclination  to  see  it 
in  print ' ' ;  adding,  that  her  brother  Charles  would 
transact  the  affair  with  a  bookseller  at  a  distance,  so  that 
her  name  could  never  transpire,  and  only  entreating  that 
he  would  not  himself  ask  to  see  the  manuscript.  "  His 
amazement  was  even  surpassed  by  his  amusement ;  and 
his  laugh  was  so  gay  that,  revived  by  its  cheering  sound, 
she  lost  all  her  fears  and  embarrassment,  and  heartily 
joined  in  it,  though  somewhat  at  the  expense  of  her  new 
author-like  dignity." 

Dr.  Burney  thought  her  project  as  innocent  as  it  was 

consent.  whimsical,  and  kindly  embracing  her,  enjoined  her  to  be 

careful  in  guarding  her  own  incognita,  and  then  dropped 

the  subject  without  even  asking  the  name  of  her  book. 

With  heightened  spirits  she  now  sent  the  manuscript 
to  the  publisher,  who,  in  a  few  days,  signified  his  ap- 
probation, proposing  to  pay  twenty  pounds  for  it — 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  265 

"an  offer  which  was  accepted  with  alacrity,  and  bound- 
less surprise  at  its  magnificence  !  " 

In  the  ensuing  January,  1778,  "Evelina"  was  pub- 
lished, a  fact  which  only  became  known  to  its  writer 
from  her  hearing  the  newspaper  advertisement  read 
accidentally  at  breakfast-time,  by  her  step-mother,  Mrs. 
Burney. 

The  immediate  advantage  that  Miss  Burney  derived 

J  .  Sudden 

from  her  sudden  celebrity  as  the  authoress  of  ' '  Evelina ' '  celebrity, 
was  her  acquaintance  with  the  great  Dr.  Johnson.  He 
was  delighted  with  the  book,  and  still  more  delighted 
when  he  learned  that  it  was  written  by  the  daughter  of 
his  friend  Dr.  Burney,  who  had  desired  early  in  the 
matter  that  Mrs.  Thrale  should  be  let  into  the  secret. 
Fanny  writes  to  her  father  upon  this. 

As  to  Mrs.  Thrale — your  wish  of  telling  her  quite  unmans 
me  ;  I  shook  so  when  I  read  it  that,  had  anybody  been  present, 
I  must  have  betrayed  myself. 

But  if  you  do  tell  Mrs.  Thrale,  won't  she  think  it  strange 
where  I  can  have  kept  company,  to  describe  such  a  family  as 
the  Branghtons,  Mr.  Smith,  and  some  others?  Indeed  (thank 
heaven  !),  I  don't  myself  recollect  ever  passing  half-an-hour  at 
a  time  with  any  one  person  quite  so  bad ;  so  that  I  am  afraid 
she  will  conclude  I  must  have  an  innate  vulgarity  of  ideas,  to 
assist  me  with  such  coarse  coloring  for  the  objects  of  my  imagi- 
nation. Not  that  I  suppose  the  book  would  be  better  received 
by  her  for  having  characters  very  pretty  and  all  alike. 

And  when  the  lady's  approbation  was  secure,  she 
writes  to  Susan  : 

Mrs.  Thrale  !  she — she  is  the  goddess  of  my  idolatry  ! — What 
an  cloge  is  hers  ! — an  tloge  that  not  only  delights  at  first,  but  Mrs-  Thraie's 

.          .     .  .  ,          ,  ,          approbation. 

proves  more  and  more  nattering  every  time  it  is  considered  ! 

I  often  think  when  I  am  counting  my  laurels,  what  a  pity  it 
would  have  been  had  I  popped  off  in  my  last  illness,  without 
knowing  what  a  person  of  consequence  I  was  ! — and  I  some- 
times think  that,  were  I  now  to  have  a  relapse,  I  could  never  go 


266    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

off  with  so  much  £clat!  I  am  now  at  the  summit  of  a  high 
hill ;  my  prospects  on  one  side  are  bright,  glowing,  and  invit- 
ingly beautiful ;  but  when  I  turn  round,  I  perceive,  on  the  other 
side,  sundry  caverns,  gulfs,  pits,  and  precipices,  that,  to  look  at, 
make  my  head  giddy  and  my  heart  sick.  I  see  about  me, 
indeed,  many  hills  of  far  greater  height  and  sublimity  ;  but  I 
have  not  the  strength  to  attempt  climbing  them  ;  if  I  move,  it 
must  be  downwards.  I  have  already,  I  fear,  reached  the  pin- 
nacle of  my  abilities,  and  therefore  to  stand  still  will  be  my  best 
policy. 

Mrs.  Thrale  soon  invited  her,  with  her  father,  to  dine 

Dining  at 

Sueatham.         at  btreatham. 

LONDON,  AUGUST. — I  have  now  to  write  an  account  of  the 
most  consequential  day  I  have  spent  since  my  birth  ;  namely, 
my  Streatham  visit. 

Our  journey  to  Streatham  was  the  least  pleasant  part  of  the 
day,  for  the  roads  were  dreadfully  dusty,  and  I  was  really  in  the 
fidgets  from  thinking  what  my  reception  might  be,  and  from 
fearing  they  would  expect  a  less  awkward  and  backward  kind 
of  person  than  I  was  sure  they  would  find. 

Mr.  Thrale's  house  is  white,  and  very  pleasantly  situated,  in  a 
fine  paddock.  Mrs.  Thrale  was  strolling  about,  and  came  to  us 
as  we  got  out  of  the  chaise. 

"  Ah,"  cried  she,  "  I  hear  Dr.  Burney's  voice  !  and  you  have 
brought  your  daughter? — well,  now  you  are  good  !  " 

She  then  received  me,  taking  both  my  hands,  and  with 
mixed  politeness  and  cordiality  welcoming  me  to  Streatham. 
When  we  were  summoned  to  dinner,  Mrs.  Thrale  made  my 
father  and  me  sit  on  each  side  of  her.  I  said  that  I  hoped  I 
did  not  take  Dr.  Johnson's  place — for  he  had  not  yet  appeared. 

"No,"  answered  Mrs.  Thrale,  "he  will  sit  by  you,  which  I 
am  sure  will  give  him  great  pleasure." 

Soon  after  we  were  seated  this  great  man  entered.  I  have  so 
cHn'm:rhnSOn  at  true  a  veneration  for  him  that  the  very  sight  of  him  inspires  me 
with  delight  and  reverence,  notwithstanding  the  cruel  infirmities 
to  which  he  is  subject ;  for  he  has  almost  perpetual  convulsive 
movements,  either  of  his  hands,  lips,  feet,  or  knees,  and  some- 
times of  all  together. 

Mrs.  Thrale  introduced  me  to  him,  and  he  took  his  place. 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  267 

We  had  a  noble  dinner  and  a  most  elegant  dessert.  Dr.  John- 
son, in  the  middle  of  dinner,  asked  Mrs.  Thrale  what  was  in 
some  little  pies  that  were  near  him. 

"Mutton,"  answered  she,  "so  I  don't  ask  you  to  eat  any, 
because  I  know  you  despise  it." 

"  No,  madam,  no,"  cried  he  ;  "I  despise  nothing  that  is  good 
of  its  sort  ;  but  I  am  too  proud  now  to  eat  of  it.  Sitting  by 
Miss  Burney  makes  me  very  proud  to-day  !  " 

Some  time  after  the  doctor  began  laughing  to  himself,  and 
then,  suddenly  turning  to  me,  he  called  out,  "Only  think, 
Polly  !  Miss  has  danced  with  a  lord  !  " 

"Ah,  poor  Evelina!  "  cried  Mrs.  Thrale,  "I  see  her  now  in 
Kensington  Gardens.  What  she  must  have  suffered  !  Poor  EveHna  again, 
girl  !  what  fidgets  she  must  have  been  in  !  And  I  know  Mr. 
Smith,  too,  very  well ; — I  always  have  him  before  me  at  the 
Hampstead  Ball,  dressed  in  a  white  coat  and  tambour  waist- 
coat, worked  in  green  silk.  Poor  Mr.  Seward  !  Mr.  Johnson 
made  him  so  mad  t'other  day  !  'Why,  Seward,'  said  he,  '  how 
smart  you  are  dressed !  why,  you  only  want  a  tambour  waist- 
coat to  look  like  Mr.  Smith  ! '  But  I  am  very  fond  of  Lady 
Louisa  ;  I  think  her  as  well  drawn  as  any  character  in  the 
book  ;  so  fine,  so  affected,  so  languishing,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  so  insolent !  " 

She  then  ran  on  with  several  of  her  speeches. 

Some  time  after,  she  gave  Dr.  Johnson  a  letter  from  Dr. 
Jebb,  concerning  one  of  the  gardeners  who  is  very  ill.  When 
he  had  read  it,  he  grumbled  violently  to  himself,  and  put  it 
away  with  marks  of  displeasure. 

"What's  the  matter,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Thrale  ;  "do  you  find 
any  fault  with  the  letter  ?  " 

"No,  madam,  the  letter  is  well  enough,  if  the  man  knew  how- 
to  write  his  own  name  ;  but  it  moves  my  indignation  to  see 
a  gentleman  take  pains  to  appear  a  tradesman.  Mr.  Branghton 
would  have  written  his  name  with  just  such  beastly  flourishes." 

As    everybody   was    talking   about    her   book,    while 
Fanny  was  still  unknown  as  its  author,  she  heard  many  book. 
amusing-  comments  from  such  visitors  at  Mrs.  Thrale' s 
as  these  : 


268    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

"A  gentleman  whom  we  know  very  well,"  said  Miss  Palmer, 
"  when  he  could  learn  nothing  at  the  printer's,  took  the  trouble 
to  go  all  about  Snow  Hill,  to  see  if  he  could  find  any  silver- 
smith's." 

"Well,  he  was  a  cunning  creature  !  "  said  Mrs.  Thrale  ;  "  but 
Dr.  Johnson's  favorite  is  Mr.  Smith." 

"So  he  is  of  everybody,"  answered  she;  "he  and  all  that 
family  :  everybody  says  such  a  family  never  was  drawn  before. 
But  Mrs.  Cholmondeley's  favorite  is  Madame  Duval ;  she  acts 
her  from  morning  to  night,  and  ma-fa? s  everybody  she  sees. 
But  though  we  all  want  so  much  to  know  the  author,  both  Mrs. 
Cholmondeley  and  my  uncle  himself  say  they  should  be 
frightened  to  death  to  be  in  her  company,  because  she  must  be 
such  a  very  nice  observer  that  there  would  be  no  escaping  her 
with  safety." 

What  strange  ideas  are  taken  from  a  mere  book  reading  ! 
But  what  follows  gave  the  highest  delight  I  can  feel. 

"Mr.  Burke,"  she  continued,  "doatsonit:  he  began  it  one 

Opinion  of          morning  at  seven  o'clock  and  could  not  leave  it  a  moment ;  he 

Edmund  .    .  ,.  ,._ 

Burke.  sat  up  all  night  reading  it.     He  says  he  has  not  seen  such  a 

book  he  can't  tell  when." 

Mrs.  Thrale  gave  me  involuntarily  a  look  of  congratulation, 
and  could  not  forbear  exclaiming,  "How  glad  she  was  Mr. 
Burke  approved  it !  " 

I  make  these  quotations  from  Miss  Burney's  diary, 
which  has  page  upon  page  of  such  description,  to  show 
how  the  polite  world  was  delighted  with  the  vulgar  folks 
in  "Evelina,"  and  also  for  the  glimpse  they  give  of  Dr. 
Johnson. 

This  great  big  celebrated  man  was  now  firmly  estab- 
Dr  Johnson  Hshed  in  the  house  of  the  Thrales,  who  with  much  good 
Thraies!  nature  allowed  him  to  be  there.  Mr.  Thrale,  in  the  be- 

ginning, was  much  charmed  with  Johnson's  conversation 
and  apparently  commanded,  rather  than  persuaded,  his 
wife  to  add  him  to  their  household  if  possible  as  a  per- 
manent inmate.  The  great  man  availed  himself  of  the 
hospitality  held  out  to  him,  and  in  1766  began  a  tenancy 
of  sixteen  years  under  their  roof. 


Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson.  269 

He  was  therefore  absolutely  a  fixture  in  the  family 
when  Fanny  Burney  met  him  there  in  1778.  When  he 
first  came  to  the  Thrales'  he  was  fifty-six,  short-sighted, 
afflicted  with  stertorous  breathing  ;  he  dressed  shabbily 
and  seldom  attended  to  the  cleanliness  of  his  linen.  His 
wigs  were  so  scrubby  and  so  burnt  away  in  front  by  Personal 
contact  with  candles,  that  Mr.  Thrale's  valet  had  much 
ado  to  make  him  presentable  for  the  dinner-table.  At 
any  meal  he  usually  busied  himself  so  intently  that  the 
veins  in  his  forehead  swelled,  and  the  perspiration  broke 
out  upon  him.  His  voice  was  loud,  and  of  course  his 
manners  were  dictatorial.  He  was  so  fond  of  late  hours 
that  the  servants  of  the  house  looked  upon  him  as  the 
curse  of  the  establishment. 

"I  lie  down,"  he  used  to  say,  "that  my  acquaint- 
ances may  sleep  ;  but  I  lie  down  to  endure  oppressive 
misery  and  soon  rise  again  to  pass  the  night  in  anxiety  Sleepless 
and  pain. ' '  When  the  candles  did  not  burn  brightly  he 
would  seize  them  and  turn  them  upside  down  till  they 
improved,  the  droppings  falling  to  the  carpet.  He  never 
was  in  time  for  breakfast.  He  was  ever  quarreling  with 
Mrs.  Thrale's  mother,  who  was  also  an  inmate  of  the 
house,  and  whom  he  loved  to  irritate.  He  likewise 
would  be  very  rude,  on  occasion,  to  visitors  whom  the 
Thrales  might  ask  to  their  table.  All  this,  together 
with  Johnson's  frequent  illnesses,  these  generous  hosts 
tolerated  for  so  many  years,  in  order  to  cherish  a  man 
who  was  great  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and  whom 
they  had  the  sense  and  charity  to  rate  at  his  inner 
worth.  There  is  no  record  of  Mrs.  Thrale's  having  once  Mrs.  Thrale's 

,  .  ....  ...  ....  good-nature. 

lost  her  temper  with  the  shaggy  philosopher,  irritating 
to  any  hostess  as  his  habits  must  have  been.  She  her- 
self records  with  a  pardonable  pride  that  she  had  never 
anything  to  blame  herself  for  in  her  attentions  to  him. 


2  jo    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

But  Samuel  Johnson  was  a  great  man,  and  it  is  a  proof 
of  it  that  everybody  tolerated  his  eccentricities,  con- 
doned his  untidiness,  and — loved  him. 

He  wrote  a  quantity  of  things,  now  generally  con- 
ceded to  be  dull  ;  to  quote  from  his  "  Rasselas  "  would 
add  nothing  to  our  knowledge  of  the  manners  of  his 
own  time  ;  while  his  own  manners,  as  we  have  seen, 
must  be  taken  as  an  exception  from  the  general  rule  of 
the  day,  which  was  in  favor  of  elegance  and  punctilio.  I 
will  give  this  passage  of  his  too  heavily  loaded  style  as 
a  specimen  of  what  is  meant  by  ' '  Johnsonese. ' ' 

The  proverbial  oracles  of  our  parsimonious  ancestors  have 
informed  us  that  the  fatal  waste  of  fortune  is  by  small  expenses, 
Specimen  of  by  the  profusion  of  sums  too  little  singly  to  alarm  our  caution, 
and  which  we  never  suffer  ourselves  to  consider  together.  Of 
the  same  kind  is  the  prodigality  of  life  ;  he  that  hopes  to  look 
back  hereafter  with  satisfaction  upon  past  years  must  learn  to 
know  the  present  value  of  single  minutes,  and  endeavor  to  let 
no  particle  of  time  fall  useless  to  the  ground. 

A  simple  writer  would  have  expressed  this  in  some 
such  way  as  the  following  : 

Take  care  of  the  pennies,  says  the  thrifty  old  proverb,  and 
the  pounds  will  take  care  of  themselves.  In  like  manner  we 
might  say,  Take  care  of  the  minutes  and  the  years  will  take 
care  of  themselves. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Evelina,  with  Introduction  by  Annie  Raine  Ellis.  ( London, 
1892.) 

Diary  of  Madame  d'Arblay.     Fanny  Burney. 

English  Poetesses.     (Mrs.  Thrale.  j     Eric  S.  Robertson. 

Samuel  Johnson.     Leslie  Stephen.     (Men  of  Letters  Series.) 


BOOK  IX. 
BEAU  NASH  AND  BATH. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ONE  of  the  good-natured  things,  among  those  that 
Goldsmith  was  doing  all  the  time,  was  to  write  a  life 
of  Beau  Nash,  the  monarch  of  Bath.  Besides  being  a 
truthful  biography  of  that  singular  man,  it  is  interesting  A  fashionable 
for  its  description  of  how  things  were  carried  on  in  the 
leading  watering  place  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Bath  at  that  time  was  what  Newport  was  in  our  own 
country  fifty  years  ago,  and  what  Narragansett  Pier  fain 
would  be  to-day — the  resort  of  the  fashionable  people  in 
the  season  when  they  wished  to  divert  themselves  away 
from  London.  It  was  so  well  known,  and  so  indis- 
pensable, so  to  speak,  that  all  the  real  people  we  are 
now  reading  about  are  mentioned  as  resorting  thither 
and  all  the  make-believe  people  in  the  novels  make  a 
point  of  doing  so.  Some  account  of  Bath,  therefore, 
seems  an  important  detail  in  our  study  of  the  manners 
of  the  century. 

This  is  what  Baedeker's  Great  Britain  (1894)  says 
about  it  : 

Bath,  the  chief  place  in  Somerset,  is  a  handsome  town  of 

51,844  inhabitants,  beautifully  situated  in  the  valley  of  the  Avon    Some  facts  . 
...  -     .  ..          ....  .     .  ,  concerning  it. 

and  on  the  slopes  of  the  surrounding  hills,  and  is  perhaps 
unrivaled  among  provincial  English  towns  for  its  combination 
of  archaeological,  historic,  scenic,  and  social  interests.  It  is  a 
city  of  crescents  and  terraces,  built  in  a  very  substantial  manner 
of  fine  gray  limestone,  and  rising  tier  above  tier  to  a  height  of 


272    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Traditional 
discovery  of 
Bath. 


Goldsmith's 
intentions. 


Family  of 
Beau  Nash. 


about  six  hundred  feet.  Among  the  most  characteristic  streets 
are  the  Royal  Lansdown  and  Camden  Crescents,  the  Circus  and 
Pulteney  Street,  all  of  which  recall  similar  streets  in  Edin- 
burgh. Milsom  Street  is  the  fashionable  street. 

Tradition  ascribes  the  discovery  of  the  springs  of  Bath  to  an 
ancient  British  prince  named  Bladud  who  was  afflicted  with 
leprosy  and  observed  their  beneficial  effects  on  a  herd  of  swine 
suffering  from  a  similar  disease.  The  therapeutic  value  of  the 
waters  did  not  escape  the  eyes  of  the  bath-loving  Romans,  who 
built  here  a  large  city,  with  extensive  baths  and  temples,  of 
which  numerous  remains  have  been  discovered. 

So  much  for  Baedeker.  We  will  now  turn  to  Gold- 
smith's more  genial,  though  less  statistic  style. 

I  profess  to  write  the  history  of  a  man  placed  in  the  middle 
ranks  of  life  ;  of  one  whose  vices  and  virtues  were  open  to  the 
eye  of  the  most  undiscerning  spectator ;  who  was  placed  in 
public  view  without  power  to  repress  censure  or  command 
admiration  ;  who  had  too  much  merit  not  to  be  remarkable, 
yet  too  much  folly  to  arrive  at  greatness.  I  attempt  the  char- 
acter of  one  who  was  just  such  a  man  as  probably  you  or  I  may 
be  ,  but  with  this  difference,  that  he  never  performed  an  action 
which  the  world  did  not  know,  or  ever  formed  a  wish  which  he 
did  not  take  pains  to  divulge.  In  short  I  have  chosen  to  write 
the  life  of  the  noted  Mr.  Nash,  as  it  will  be  the  delineation  of  a 
mind  without  disguise,  of  a  man  ever  assiduous  without  indus- 
try and  pleasing  to  his  superiors  without  any  superiority  of 
genius  or  understanding. 

It  is  a  matter  of  very  little  importance  who  were  the  parents, 
or  what  was  the  education,  of  a  man  who  owed  so  little  of  his 
advancement  to  either.  He  seldom  boasted  of  family  or  learn- 
ing, and  his  father's  name  and  circumstances  were  so  little 
known  that  Dr.  Cheyne  used  frequently  to  say  that  Nash  had 
no  father.  The  Duchess  of  Marlborough  one  day  rallying  him 
in  public  company  upon  the  obscurity  of  his  birth,  compared 
him  to  Gil  Bias,  who  was  ashamed  of  his  father.  "No, 
madam,"  said  Nash,  "I  seldom  mention  my  father  in  company, 
not  because  I  have  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  him,  but 
because  he  has  some  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  me." 


His  father  had  strained  his  little  income  to  give  his  son  such 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  273 

an  education,  but  from  the  boy's  natural  vivacity,  he  hoped 
a  recompense  from  his  future  preferment.    In  college,  however,    Early  educa- 
he  soon  showed  that  though  much  might  be  expected  from  his   l 
genius,  nothing  could  be  hoped  from  his  industry.     A  mind 
strongly  turned  to  pleasure  always  is  first  seen  at  the  university  : 
there  the  youth  first  found  himself  freed  from  the  restraint  of 
tutors,  and  being  treated  by  his  friends  in  some  measure  as  a 
man,  assumes  the  passions  and  desires  of  a  ripe  age,  and  dis- 
covers in  the  boy  what  are  likely  to  be  the  affections  of  his 
maturity. 

.  .  .  When  King  William  was  on  the  throne,  Mr.  Nash  was 
a  member  of  the  Middle  Temple.  It  had  long  been  customary  MfadteTemp 
for  the  Inns  of  Court  to  entertain  our  monarchs  upon  their 
accession  to  the  crown,  or  some  such  remarkable  occasion, 
with  a  revel  and  pageant.  In  the  earlier  periods  of  our  history, 
poets  were  the  conductor  of  these  entertainments  ;  plays  were 
exhibited  and  complimentary  verses  were  then  written  ;  but  by 
degrees  the  pageant  alone  was  continued,  Sir  John  Davis  being 
the  last  poet  that  wrote  verses  upon  such  an  occasion,  in  the 
reign  of  James  I. 

This  ceremony,  which  has  been  at  length  totally  discontinued, 
was  last  exhibited  in  honor  of  King  William,  and  Mr.  Nash 
was  chosen  to  conduct  the  whole  with  proper  decorum.  He  a  pageant, 
was  then  but  a  very  young  man  ;  but  we  see  at  how  early  an 
age  he  was  thought  proper  to  guide  the  amusements  of  his 
country,  and  be  the  arbiter  elegantiarum  of  his  time  ;  we  see 
how  early  he  gave  proofs  of  that  spirit  of  regularity  for  which 
he  afterward  became  famous,  and  showed  an  attention  to 
those  little  circumstances,  of  which,  though  the  observance  be 
trifling,  the  neglect  has  often  interrupted  men  of  the  greatest 
abilities  in  the  progress  of  their  fortunes. 

Nash  was  now  fairly  for  life  entered  into  a  course  of  gaiety 
and  dissipation,  and  steady  in  nothing  but  the  pursuit  of 
variety.  He  was  thirty  years  old,  without  fortune,  or  useful 
talents  to  acquire  one.  He  had  hitherto  only  led  a  life  of 
expedients  ;  he  thanked  chance  alone  for  his  support,  and 
having  been  long  precariously  supported,  he  became  at  length 
totally  a  stranger  to  prudence  or  precaution.  Not  to  disguise 
any  part  of  his  character,  he  was  now  by  profession  a  gamester, 
and  went  on  from  day  to  day,  feeling  the  vicissitudes  of  rapture 
and  anguish  in  proportion  to  the  fluctuations  of  fortune. 


274    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

At  this  time  London  was  the  only  theater  in  England  for 
Gaming  in  pleasure  or  intrigue.     A  spirit  of  gaming  had  been  introduced 

in  the  licentious  age  of  Charles  II.  and  had  by  this  time  thriven 
surprisingly.  Yet  all  its  devastations  were  confined  to  London 
alone.  So  this  great  mart  of  every  folly  sharpers  from  every 
country  daily  arrived  for  the  winter  ;  but  were  obliged  to  leave 
the  kingdom  at  the  approach  of  summer,  in  order  to  open 
a  new  campaign  at  Aix,  Spa,  or  The  Hague.  Bath,  Tunbridge, 
Scarborough,  and  other  places  of  the  same  kind  here,  were 
then  frequented  only  by  such  as  really  went  for  relief;  the 
pleasures  they  afforded  were  merely  rural ;  the  company  splen- 
etic, rustic,  and  vulgar.  In  this  situation  of  things  people  of 
fashion  had  no  agreeable  summer  retreat  from  the  town,  and 
usually  spent  that  season  amidst  a  solitude  of  country  squires, 
parsons'  wives,  and  visiting  tenants  or  farmers  ;  they  wanted 
some  place  where  they  might  have  each  other's  company,  and 
win  each  other's  money,  as  they  had  done  during  the  winter  in 
town. 

Queen  Anne  visited  Bath  in    1702   and  this  set  the 
Bath.  fashion.     There  were  so  few  people  that  they  danced 

in  the  bowling-green  to  the  music  of  the  fiddle  and  haut- 
boy, and  sauntered  about  under  the  sycamore  trees. 

Still  the  amusements  of  the  place  were  neither  elegant 
nor  conducted  with  delicacy.  General  society  among  people 
of  rank  or  fortune  was  by  no  means  established.  The  no- 
bility still  preserved  a  tincture  of  Gothic  haughtiness,  and 
refused  to  keep  company  with  the  gentry  at  any  of  the  public 
entertainments  of  the  place.  Smoking  in  the  rooms  was  per- 
mitted ;  gentlemen  and  ladies  appeared  in  a  disrespectful 
manner  at  public  entertainments  in  aprons  and  boots.  With  an 
eagerness  common  to  those  whose  pleasures  come  but  seldom, 
they  generally  continued  them  too  long ;  and  thus  they  were 
rendered  disgusting  by  too  free  an  enjoyment.  If  the  company 
liked  each  other,  they  danced  till  morning  ;  if  any  person  lost  at 
cards,  he  insisted  on  continuing  the  game  till  luck  should  turn. 

The  lodgings  for  visitants  were  paltry,  though  expensive  ; 
the  dining-rooms  and  other  chambers  were  floored  with  boards 
colored  brown  with  soot  and  small  beer  to  hide  the  dirt ;  the 
walls  were  covered  with  unpainted  wainscot  ;  the  furniture  cor- 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  275 

responded  with  the  meanness  of  the  architecture  ;  a  few  oak- 
chairs,  a  small  looking  glass,  with  a  fender  and  tongs,  com- 
posed the  magnificence  of  these  temporary  habitations.  The 
city  was  in  itself  mean  and  contemptible  ;  no  elegant  buildings, 
no  open  streets,  no  uniform  squares.  The  pump-house  was 
without  any  director  ;  the  chairmen  permitted  no  gentlemen  or 
ladies  to  walk  home  by  night  without  insulting  them,  and  to 
add  to  all  this,  one  of  the  greatest  physicians  of  his  age  con- 
ceived a  design  of  ruining  the  city,  by  writing  against  the  effi- 
cacy of  the  waters.  It  was  from  a  resultment  of  some  affronts 
he  had  received  there  that  he  took  this  resolution,  and  ac- 
cordingly published  a  pamphlet,  by  which  he  said  "he  would 
cast  a  toad  into  the  spring." 

In  this  situation  it  was  that  Nash  first  arrived  in  Bath. 
He  promised  to  charm  away  the  toad.  He  hired  a 
band  of  music.  The  company  increased.  Nash  tri- 
umphed and  became  the  monarch  of  the  little  state 
of  Bath. 

The  balls  began  at  six  and  ended  at  eleven.  Every- 
thing was  performed  in  proper  order.  The  ball  opened  Conduct  of  the 
with  a  minuet  danced  by  the  two  persons  of  highest  dis- 
tinction present.  When  the  minuet  was  over  the  lady 
returned  to  her  seat,  and  Nash  took  the  gentleman  to  a 
new  partner,  every  gentleman  being  obliged  to  dance 
twice,  until  the  minuets  were  over,  which  generally 
lasted  two  hours.  At  eight  began  the  country  dances, 
ladies  of  quality  according  to  their  rank  standing  up  first. 
At  nine  o'clock  was  a  short  interval  for  rest,  when  the 
gentlemen  helped  their  partners  to  tea.  After  this  the 
dancing  continued  till  the  clock  struck  eleven,  when  the 
master  of  ceremonies  entered  the  ball-room  and  ordered 
the  music  to  desist  by  lifting  up  his  finger.  This 
stopped  the  dancing,  and,  some  time  allowed  for  becom- 
ing cool,  the  ladies  were  handed  to  their  chairs. 

He  was  not  less  strict  with  regard  to  the  dresses.  He 
had  the  strongest  aversion  to  a  white  apron  and  abso- 


276    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

lutely  excluded  them.     He  had  still  more  trouble  with 

the  gentlemen,  in  stopping  the  use  of  the  sword,  but  in 

this  he  triumphed  at  last,  as  well  as  concerning  boots, 

bootsdforbid-       which  he  would  not  permit  to  be  worn.     By  ridicule  he 

den-  succeeded   in   breaking   up   this   custom,  and  few  men 

ventured  to  be  seen  at  the  assembies  in  Bath  in  a  riding 

dress.     If   any  gentleman  through  ignorance  or    haste 

appeared  in  the  rooms  in  boots,  Nash,  bowing,  would 

tell  him  that  "  he  had  forgot  his  horse." 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE  city  of  Bath,  by  such  assiduity,  soon  became  the  theater 

of  summer  amusements  for  all  people  of  fashion  ;  and  the    B?th  th^ resort 

r  of  people  of 

manner  of  spending  the  day  there  must  amuse  any  but  such  as  fashion, 
disease  or  spleen  had  made  uneasy  to  themselves.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  faint  picture  of  the  pleasures  that  scene  affords.  Upon 
a  stranger's  arrival  at  Bath  he  is  welcomed  by  a  peal  of  the 
abbey  bells,  and,  in  the  next  place,  by  the  voice  and  music  of 
the  city  waits.  For  these  civilities,  the  ringers  have  generally  a 
present  made  them  of  half  a  guinea,  and  the  waits  of  half  a 
crown  or  more,  in  proportion  to  the  person's  fortune,  gener- 
osity, or  ostentation.  These  customs,  though  disagreeable,  are, 
however,  liked,  or  they  would  not  continue.  The  greatest 
incommodity  attending  them  is  the  disturbance  the  bells  must 
give  the  sick.  But  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  name  of  every 
family  that  comes  to  town  recompenses  the  inconvenience. 
Invalids  are  fond  of  news,  and  upon  the  first  sound  of  the  bells 
everybody  sends  out  to  inquire  for  whom  they  ring. 

After  the  family  is  thus  welcomed  to  Bath,  it  is  the  custom 
for  the  master  of  it  to  go  to  the  public  places,  and  subscribe  to*  amusements, 
two  guineas  at  the  assembly  houses  toward  the  balls  and  music 
in  the  pump-house,  for  which  he  is  entitled  to  three  tickets 
every  ball  night.  His  next  subscription  is  a  crown,  half  a 
guinea,  or  a  guinea,  according  to  his  rank  and  quality,  for  the 
liberty  of  walking  in  the  private  walks  belonging  to  Simpson's 
assembly  house  ;  a  crown  or  half  a  guinea  is  also  given  to  the 
booksellers,  for  which  the  gentleman  is  to  have  what  books  he 
pleases  to  read  at  his  lodgings,  and  at  the  coffee-house  another 
subscription  is  taken  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  for  such  letters  as 
the  subscriber  shall  write  at  it  during  his  stay.  The  ladies,  too, 
may  subscribe  to  the  booksellers,  and  to  a  house  by  the  pump- 
room,  for  the  advantage  of  reading  the  news  and  for  enjoying 
each  other's  conversation. 

Things  being  thus  adjusted,  the  amusements  of  the  day  are 
generally  begun  by  bathing,  which  is  no  unpleasing  method  of 
passing  away  an  hour  or  so. 


278    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

The  hours  for  bathing  are  commonly  between  six  and  nine  in 
the  morning,  and  the  baths  are  every  morning  supplied  with 
fresh  water ;  for  when  the  people  have  done  bathing,  the 
sluices  in  each  bath  are  pulled  up,  and  the  water  is  carried  off 
by  drains  into  the  river  Avon. 

In  the  morning  the  lady  is  brought  in  a  close  chair,  dressed 
in  her  bathing  clothes,  to  the  bath  ;  and,  being  in  the  water,  the 
woman  who  attends  presents  her  with  a  little  floating  dish  like 
a  basin  ;  into  which  the  lady  puts  a  handkerchief,  a  snuff-box, 
and  a  nosegay.  She  then  traverses  the  bath  ;  if  a  novice,  with 
a  guide  ;  if  otherwise,  by  herself;  and  having  amused  herself 
thus  while  she  thinks  proper,  calls  for  her  chair,  and  returns  to 
her  lodgings. 

The  amusement  of  bathing  is  immediately  succeeded  by  a 
Program  of         general  assembly  of  people  at  the  pump-room  ;  some  for  plea- 
pleasure,  sure,  and  some  to  drink  the  hot  waters.     Three  glasses  at  three 
different  times  is  the  usual  portion  for  every  drinker  ;  and  the 
intervals  between  every  glass  are  enlivened  by  the  harmony  of 
a  small  band  of  music,  as  well  as  by  the  conversation  of  the 
gay,  the  witty,  or  the  forward. 

From  the  pump-room  the  ladies,  from  time  to  time,  with- 
draw to  a  female  coffee-house,  and  from  thence  return  to  their 
lodgings  to  breakfast.  The  gentlemen  withdraw  to  their  coffee- 
houses, to  read  the  papers,  or  converse  on  the  news  of  the  day, 
with  a  freedom  and  ease  not  to  be  found  in  the  metropolis. 

People  of  fashion  make  public  breakfasts  at  the  assembly 
houses,  to  which  they  invite  their  acquaintances,  and  they 
sometimes  order  private  concerts ;  or,  when  so  disposed, 
attend  lectures  on  the  arts  and  sciences,  which  are  frequently 
taught  there  in  a  pretty  superficial  manner,  so  as  not  to  tease 
the  understanding,  while  they  afford  the  imagination  some 
amusement.  The  private  concerts  are  performed  in  the  ball- 
rooms ;  the  tickets  a  crown  each. 

Concert  breakfasts  at  the  assembly  house  sometimes  make 
Concert  break-  also  a  part  of  the  morning's  amusement  here,  the  expenses  of 
which  are  defrayed  by  a  subscription  among  the  men.  Per- 
sons of  rank  and  fortune  who  can  perform  are  admitted  into 
the  orchestra,  and  find  a  pleasure  in  joining  with  the  per- 
formers. 

Thus  we  have  the  tedious  morning  fairly  over.  When  noon 
approaches,  and  church  (if  any  please  to  go  there)  is  done,  some 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  279 

of  the  company  appear  upon  the  parade,  and  other  public  walks, 
where  they  continue  to  chat  and  amuse  each  other,  till  they 
have  formed  parties  for  the  play,  cards,  or  dancing  for  the 
evening.  Another  part  of  the  company  divert  themselves 
with  reading  in  the  booksellers'  shops,  or  are  generally  seen 
taking  the  air  and  exercise,  some  on  horseback,  some  in 
coaches.  Some  walk  in  the  meadows  round  the  town,  winding 
along  the  side  of  the  river  Avon  and  the  neighboring  canal ; 
while  others  are  seen  scaling  some  of  those  romantic  precipices 
that  overhang  the  city. 

When  the  hour  of  dinner  draws  nigh,  and  the  company  are    The  dinn 
returned  from  their  different  recreations,  the  provisions  are    hour, 
generally  served  with  the  utmost  elegance  and  plenty.     Their 
mutton,  butter,  fish,  and  fowl,  are  all  allowed  to  be  excellent, 
and  their  cookery  still  exceeds  their  meat. 

After  dinner  is  over,  and  eveningprayers  ended,  the  company 
meet  a  second  time  at  the  pump-house.  From  this  they  retire 
to  the  walks,  and  from  thence  go  to  drink  tea  at  the  assembly 
houses,  and  the  rest  of  the  evenings  are  concluded  either  with 
balls,  plays,  or  visits.  A  theater  was  erected  in  the  year  1705, 
by  subscription,  by  people  of  the  highest  rank,  who  permitted 
their  arms  to  be  engraven  on  the  inside  of  the  house,  as  a 
public  testimony  of  their  liberality  toward  it.  Every  Tuesday 
and  Friday  evening  is  concluded  with  a  public  ball,  the  contri- 
butions to  which  are  so  numerous  that  the  price  of  each  ticket  diversions, 
is  trifling.  Thus  Bath  yields  a  continued  rotation  of  diversions, 
and  people  of  all  ways  of  thinking,  even  from  the  libertine  to 
the  Methodist,  have  it  in  their  power  to  complete  the  day  with 
employments  suited  to  their  inclinations. 

The  equipage  of  Beau  Nash  was  sumptuous,  and  he  usually 
traveled  to  Tunbridge  in  a  post  chariot  and  six  grays,  with 
outriders,  footmen,  French  horns,  and  every  other  appendage 
of  expensive  parade.  He  always  wore  a  white  hat,  and  to 
apologize  for  this  singularity  said  he  did  it  purely  to  secure  it 
from  being  stolen  ;  his  dress  was  tawdry,  though  not  perfectly 
genteel ;  he  might  be  considered  as  a  beau  of  several  genera- 
tions, and  in  his  appearance  he  in  some  measure  mixed  the 
fashions  of  the  last  age  with  those  of  the  present.  He  per- 
fectly understood  elegant  expense,  and  generally  passed  his 
time  in  the  very  best  company,  if  persons  of  the  first  distinc- 
tion deserve  that  title. 


280    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Righteenth  Centiiry. 

For  all  this  display  Nash  had  no  other  resource  but  gambling, 
to  which  he  devoted  all  his  talents.  Long  practice  had  given 
him  immense  skill,  although  he  was  not  a  gamester  by  tem- 
perament ;  he  was  too  emotional  and  generous  to  preserve  the 
phlegmatic  coolness  necessary  for  perfection  in  the  art. 

Moreover,  gaming  had  reached  such  extremes  that 
gambling.  in  the  twelfth  year  of  George  II.  the  prevalent  games 

were  decreed  fraudulent  and  unlawful.  Pharaoh,  basset, 
and  hazard  were  now  condemned,  but  the  law  was 
scarcely  made  before  new  games  were  invented  to  elude 
it,  and  rolly-polly,  Marlborough's  battles  came  up  ;  but 
especially  the  E.  O.  tables,  which,  by  the  way,  plays  a 
conspicuous  part  in  Miss  Edgeworth's  "Belinda,"  half 
a  century  later. 

By  the  profits  of  such  a  table  Nash  succeeded  in 
existing,  being  mean  enough  to  enter  into  a  confederacy 
with  creatures  lower  than  himself  to  evade  the  law  and 
share  the  plunder.  His  transactions  in  this  matter 
Goldsmith  calls  ' '  the  greatest  blot  in  his  life  ;  and  this, 
it  is  hoped,  will  find  pardon."  He  was  cheated  by  his 
confederates  and  in  time  ruined,  and  began  to  decline 
from  his  former  favor  and  esteem,  "the  just  consequence 
of  his  quitting,  though  but  ever  so  little,  the  paths  of 
honor." 

He  lived  to  become  an  old  man.  As  Nestor  was  a 
Beauage°fthe  man  °f  tnree  ages>  so  Nash  sometimes  called  himself 
a  beau  of  three  generations. 

As  he  grew  old  and  poor,  he  became  garrulous,  people  grew 
tired  of  him  ;  a  variety  of  causes  concurred  to  embitter  his  de- 
parting life,  such  as  the  weakness  and  infirmities  of  exhausted 
nature  ;  the  admonitions  of  the  grave,  which  aggravated  his 
follies  into  vices  ;  the  ingratitude  of  his  dependents,  who  for- 
merly flattered  his  fortunes  ;  but  particularly  the  contempt  of 
the  great,  many  of  whom  quite  forgot  him  in  his  wants.  Yet 
his  death  was  sincerely  regretted  by  the  city  to  which  he  had 
been  so  long  and  so  great  a  benefactor. 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath,  281 

He  died  at  his  house  in  St.  John's  Court,  Bath,  on  the  i2th 
of  February,  1761,  aged  eighty-seven  years,  three  months,  and  His  death, 
some  days.  The  day  after  his  death,  the  mayor  called  the 
corporation  together,  when  they  granted  fifty  pounds  toward 
burying  their  sovereign  with  proper  respect.  After  the  corpse 
had  lain  four  days,  it  was  conveyed  to  the  abbey  church  in 
that  city,  with  a  solemnity  somewhat  peculiar  to  his  character. 
About  five  the  procession  moved  from  his  house  ;  the  charity 
girls,  two  and  two,  preceded  ;  next  the  boys  of  the  charity 
school,  singing  a  solemn  occasional  hymn.  Next  marched  the 
city  music,  and  his  own  band,  sounding  at  proper  intervals  a 
dirge.  Three  clergymen  immediately  preceded  the  coffin, 
which  was  adorned  with  sable  plumes,  and  the  pall  supported 
by  the  six  senior  aldermen.  The  masters  of  the  assembly 
rooms  followed  as  chief  mourners ;  the  beadles  of  that  hos- 
pital which  he  had  contributed  so  largely  to  endow  went 
next ;  and  last  of  all  the  poor  patients  themselves,  the  lame, 
the  emaciated,  and  the  feeble,  followed  their  old  benefactor  to 
his  grave,  shedding  unfeigned  tears,  and  lamenting  themselves 
in  him. 

It  would  seem  that  Tunbridge  Wells  was  a  sort  of 

,  ,    _      ,  .       Tunbridge 

dependence  of  oath,  as  we  may  learn  by  the  state  in  Weils, 
which  he  has  been  said  to  drive  thither.  I  have  a 
colored  picture  (in  Richardson's  life)  of  Tunbridge 
Wells  in  1748.  It  represents  the  broad  parade  ground 
before  the  buildings  of  the  place,  a  street  in  fact,  but 
more  a  mall,  for  there  is  a  row  of  tremendously  tall  trees 
on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  row  of  low  houses  with  steep 
slanting,  apparently  tiled,  roofs.  An  arcade  with  pil- 
lars runs  along  the  row,  with  shops  behind,  and  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  fashion  are  parading  about  the  walks, 
the  ladies  in  huge  hoops,  the  men  in  wigs  and  cocked 
hats. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ALL  of  our  friends,  real  or  unreal,  at  any  rate  those  of 
any  quality,  were  at  Bath  sooner  or  later.  Perhaps  the 
Arabella  at  first  to  arrive,  in  1752,  was  Arabella,  the  heroine  of 
"The  Female  Quixote."  Let  us  read  a  few  of  her  ex- 
periences, as  her  eccentricities  throw  some  light  on 
the  manners  of  the  place. 

After  the  death  of  her  father,  the  marquis,  Mr.  Glan- 
ville's  father  and  sister  visited  Arabella  at  the  castle, 
now  her  own,  and  accompanied  by  Mr.  Glanville  they 
all  set  out  in  a  coach  and  six,  attended  by  several 
servants  on  horseback.  You  remember  her  home  was 
in  Wales. 

The  ladies,  their  lodgings  having  been  provided  beforehand, 
retired  to  their  different  chambers  to  repose  themselves  after 
the  fatigue  of  their  journey.  Miss  Glanville  the  next  morning 
prest  Arabella  to  go  to  the  pump-room,  assuring  her  she  would 
find  a  very  agreeable  amusement. 

Arabella  accordingly  consented  to  accompany  her,  and  being 


Arabella  ^j^  tne  ladies  went  in  an  undress  of  a  morning  she  accommo- 

appears  at  the 

pump-room.  dated  herself  to  the  custom,  and  went  in  a  negligent  dress  ;  but 
instead  of  a  capuchin  she  wore  something  very  like  a  veil  of 
black  gauze  which  covered  almost  all  her  face  and  part  of  her 
waist,  and  gave  her  a  very  singular  appearance.  Miss  Glanville 
was  too  envious  of  her  cousin's  superiority  in  point  of  beauty 
to  inform  her  of  any  oddity  in  her  dress,  which  she  thought 
might  expose  her  to  the  ridicule  of  those  that  saw  her,  and  Mr. 
Glanville  was  too  little  a  critic  in  ladies'  apparel  to  be  sensible 
that  Arabella  was  not  in  the  fashion  ;  and  since  everything  she 
wore  became  her  extremely,  he  could  not  choose  but  think  she 
dressed  admirably  well  ;  he  handed  her  therefore  with  a  great 
deal  of  satisfaction  into  the  pump-room,  which  happened  to  be 
greatly  crowded  that  morning. 

282 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  283 

The  attention  of  most  part  of  the  company  was  immediately 
engaged  by  the  appearance  Lady  Bella  made.     Strangers  are    Her  singular 
here  most  strictly  criticized,  and  every  new  object  affords  a   dress- 
delicious  feast  of  raillery  and  scandal. 

The  ladies,  alarmed  at  the  singularity  of  her  dress,  crowded 
together  in  parties  ;  and  the  words,  "Who  can  she  be?  Strange 
creature!  Ridiculous!"  and  other  exclamations  of  the  kind 
were  whispered,  very  intelligibly.  The  men  were  struck  by 
her  figure,  veiled  as  she  was.  Her  fine  stature,  the  beautiful 
turn  of  her  person  attracted  all  their  notice.  Her  name  and 
quality  were  presently  whispered  all  over  the  room.  The  men, 
hearing  she  was  a  great  heiress,  found  greater  beauties  to 
admire  in  her  person ;  the  ladies,  awed  by  the  sanction  of 
quality,  dropped  their  ridicule  on  her  dress,  and  began  to  quote 
examples  of  whims  full  as  inexcusable.  One  remembered  that 
Lady  I.  F.  always  wore  her  ruffles  reversed  ;  that  the  Countess 
of went  to  court  in  a  farthingale,  etc. 

Having  consulted  her  fancy  in  a  rich  silver  stuff  she  bought 
for  the  dress  she  should  wear  the  next  ball  night,  a  person  was  Costume  after 
sent  for  to  make  it ;  and  Arabella,  who  followed  no  fashion  but  the  model  of 
her  own  taste,  which  was  formed  on  the  manners  of  the  hero- 
ines, ordered  the  woman  to  make  her  a  robe  after  the  same 
model  as  the  Princess  Julia's.  The  mantua-maker,  who 
thought  it  might  do  her  great  prejudice  with  her  new  cus- 
tomer to  acknowledge  she  knew  nothing  of  the  Princess  Julia, 
or  the  fashion  of  her  gown,  replied  at  random  and  with  great 
pertness  that  that  taste  was  quite  out,  and  she  would  advise 
her  ladyship  to  have  her  clothes  made  in  the  present  mode, 
which  was  far  more  becoming. 

"You  can  never  persuade  me,"  said  Arabella,  "that  any 
fashion  can  be  more  becoming  than  that  of  the  Princess  Julia's, 
who  was  the  most  gallant  princess  upon  earth,  and  knew  better 
than  any  other  how  to  set  off  her  charms.  It  may  be  a  little 
obsolete  now,"  pursued  she,  "for  the  fashion  could  not  but 
alter  a  little  in  the  compass  of  two  thousand  years." 

"Two  thousand  years,  madam!"  said  the  woman,  in  a  great 
surprise.     "  Lord  help  us  trades-people  if  they  did  not  alter  a    dre^mak^.1'16 
thousand  times  in  as  many  days.     I  thought  your  ladyship  was 
speaking  of  the  last  month's  taste,  which,  as  I  said  before,  is 
quite  out  now." 

"  Well,"  replied  Arabella,  "  let  the  present  mode  be  what  it 


284    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

will,  I  insist  on  having  my  clothes  made  after  the  pattern  of 
the  beautiful  daughter  of  Augustus,  being  convinced  that  none 
other  can  be  half  so  becoming." 

"  What  fashion  was  that,  pray,  madam?"  said  the  woman ;  "I 
never  saw  it." 

''How!"  replied  Arabella,  "have  you  already  forgot  the 
fashion  of  the  Princess  Julia's  robe,  which  you  said  was  worn 
but  last  month?  or  are  you  ignorant  that  the  Princess  Julia  and 
the  daughter  of  Augustus  is  the  same  person  ? " 

"I  protest,  madam,"  said  the  woman,  extremely  confused, 
"  I  had  forgot  that  till  you  called  it  to  my  mind." 

"  Well,"  said  Arabella,  "make  me  a  robe  in  the  same  taste." 

The  dress  is  described  at  length  and  wonderful  it 
was,  if  only  that  she  wore  no  hoop  at  that  period.  The 
tale  of  the  Princess  Julia  had  spread,  and  all  were  dis- 
posed for  jesting,  but  "  her  noble  air  and  the  inexpress- 
ible grace  which  accompanied  all  her  movements  drew 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  assembly." 

They  had  stayed  a  long  time  in  Bath,  when  Sir  Charles,  hav- 
Departure  of         .  J  J  °  . 

Arabella.      ..,      ing  affairs  that  required  his  presence  in  London,  proposed  to 

his  niece  the  leaving  Bath  in  a  few  days,  to  which  she  con- 
sented, and  accordingly  they  set  out  for  London  in  Arabella's 
coach  and  six,  attended  by  the  servants  on  horseback,  her 
women  having  been  sent  away  before  in  the  stage. 

Nothing  very  remarkable  happened  during  this  journey,  with 
the  exception  of  several  small  mistakes  of  Arabella's,  such  as 
her  supposing  a  neat  country  girl,  who  was  riding  behind  a 
man,  to  be  some  lady  or  princess  in  disguise  forced  away  by  a 
lover  she  hated,  and  entreating  Mr.  Glanville  to  attempt  her 
rescue,  who  could  not  be  persuaded  to  believe  it  was  as 
she  said,  and  forbade  his  son  to  meddle  in  other  people's 
affairs. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

AMONG  the  books  of  this  time  now  forgotten  is 
"Pompey  the  Little,  or  the  Life  and  Adventures  of  a  "Pompeythe 

.  .  Little." 

Lap-dog"  ;  it  was  written  by  Coventry,  about  1750, 
and  survived  long  enough  to  find  a  place  in  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld's  "  British  Novelists."  Lady  Mary  calls  it 

a  real  and  exact  representation  of  life,  as  it  is  now  acted  in  Lon- 
don, as  it  was  in  my  time,  and  as  it  will  be  I  do  not  doubt 
a  hundred  years  hence,  with  some  little  variation  of  dress  and 
perhaps  of  government.  I  found  in  it  many  of  my  acquaint- 
ances. Lady  T.  and  Lady  O.  are  so  well  painted,  I  fancied  I 
heard  them  talk,  and  have  heard  them  say  the  very  things  there 
repeated. 

On  such  good  authority,  I  take  from  "  Pompey  "  as 
a  specimen  of  real  manners  this  description  of  a  fine 
gentleman,  with  the  account  of  a  fashionable  visit  and 
the  latest  news  from  Bath.  The  little  book  is  written 
satirically,  and  this  is  of  course  exaggerated. 

Dress  was  his  darling  vanity  ;  and  consequently  his  rooms 
were  more  filled  with  clothes  than  curiosities  :  there  all  the  Description  ofa 
prjde  of  Paris  was  exhibited  to  view  ;  suits  of  velvet  and  em-  fine  gentleman, 
broidery,  sword  hilts,  red-heeled  shoes,  and  snuff  boxes, 
lay  about  in  negligent  confusion.  Nor  did  he  appear  with  less 
tclat  without  doors  ;  for  he  had  shown  his  gilt  chariot  and  bay 
horses  in  all  the  streets  of  gay  resort,  and  was  allowed  to  have 
the  most  splendid  brilliant  equipage  in  London.  The  club  at 
White's  voted  him  a  member  ;  and  there  was  a  rivalry  among 
the  ladies  of  fashion,  who  should  first  engage  him  to  their 
assemblies.  Not  any  one  came  into  the  side-box  at  a  play- 
house with  so  graceful  a  negligence  ;  and  it  was  generally 
confessed  that  he  had  the  most  accomplished  manner  of  talk- 
ing nonsense  of  any  man  of  quality  in  London. 

The  two  sisters  had  lain  longer  in  bed  than  usual  the  morn- 
285 


286    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

ing  after  their  arrival  in  town,  which  was  owing  to  the  fatigue 
of  their  journey.  They  had  but  just  finished  their  breakfast  at 
twelve  o'clock  ;  Aurora  was  sitting  down  to  her  harpsichord 
and  Theodosia  reading  the  play  bills  for  the  evening,  when  the 
door  opened  and  the  count  was  ushered  by  a  servant  into 
the  room. 

When  the  first  ceremonies  were  over,  and  the  count  had 
expressed  the  prodigious  satisfaction  he  felt  in  seeing  them  re- 
turned to  town,  he  inquired  what  kind  of  a  season  they  had  at 

The  season  at        Path 

Bath. 

"Why,  really,"  said  Theodosia,  "a  very  good   one:  there 

were  many  agreeable  people  there,  and  all  of  them  easy  and 
sociable ;  which  made  our  time  pass  away  cheerfully  and 
pleasantly." 

"  You  amaze  me  !  "  cries  the  count.  "  Impossible,  madam  ! 
How  can  it  be,  ladies  ?  I  had  letters  from  Lord  Marmozet  and 
Lady  Betty  Scornful,  assuring  me  that,  except  you  and  them- 
selves, there  were  not  three  decent  creatures  in  the  place.  I 
have  Lady  Betty's  letter  in  my  pocket,  I  believe  at  this 
moment — Oh,  no,  upon  recollection,  I  put  it  this  morning  into 
my  cabinet,  where  I  preserve  all  my  letters  from  people  of 
quality." 

Aurora,  smothering  a  laugh,  said  she  was  extremely  obliged 
to  Lord  Marmozet  and  Lady  Betty  for  ranking  her  and  her 
sister  in  the  catalogue  of  decent  beings  ;  "  But  surely,"  added 
she,  "they  must  have  been  delirious  when  they  wrote  their 
letters,  for  the  Bath  was  extremely  full." 

"  Full,"  cries  the  count,  interrupting  her  ;  "oh,  madam,  that 
is  very  possible,  and  yet  there  might  be  no  company,  that  is 
none  of  us  ;  nobody  that  one  knows  ;  for  as  for  all  the  tramon- 
tanes that  come  by  the  cross  post,  we  never  reckon  them  any- 
thing but  monsters  in  human  shape  that  serve  to  fill  up  the 
stage  of  life,  like  ciphers  in  a  play.  For  instance,  you  often  see 
an  awkward  girl  appear  in  the  rooms  with  a  frosty  face,  as  if  she 
was  just  come  from  feeding  poultry  in  her  father's  yard  ;  or  you 
see  a  booby  squire,  with  a  head  resembling  a  stone-ball  over 
a  gate-post.  Now  it  would  be  the  most  ridiculous  thing  in  life 
to  call  such  people  company.  'Tis  the  want  of  titles  and  not 
the  want  of  faces  that  makes  a  place  empty  ;  for  if  there  is 
nobody  one  knows,  if  there  is  none  of  us  in  a  place,  we  esteem 
all  the  rest  as  mob  and  rabble." 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  287 


In  Smollett's  "  Humphrey  Clinker,"  written  in  1766, 
there  is  a  good  deal  about  Bath.  We  saw  something:  ''  Humphrey 

&.  s     Clinker." 

of  Smollett  in  connection  with  Goldsmith,  as  one  of  the 
set  of  brilliant  writers  of  our  period.  His  books  are 
little  read  now,  and  almost  forgotten,  but,  like  himself, 
found  favorites  during  his  life.  The  omnivorous  Lady 
Mary  enjoyed  him  ;  she  writes,  after  receiving  his  trans- 
lation of  "  Don  Quixote  "  : 

I  am  sorry  my  friend  Smollett  loses  his  time  in  translations. 
He  has  certainly  a  talent  for  invention,  though  I  think  it  flags  a 
little  in  his  last  work  ("  Count  Fathom  ").  "  Don  Quixote  "  is 
a  difficult  undertaking.  I  shall  never  desire  to  read  any  at- 
tempt to  new-dress  him.  I  had  rather  take  pains  to  understand 
him  in  the  original  Spanish  than  sleep  over  a  stupid  trans- 
lation. 

"Humphrey  Clinker"  is  all  in  letters  ;  and  the  differ- 
ent characters  recount  their  impressions  in  characteristic 
ways.  This  is  the  description  which  the  sentimental, 
languishing  heroine,  Miss  Lydia  Medford,  sends  to  her 
friend.  As  Beau  Nash  had  died  in  1761,  at  a  great  age, 
the  "pretty  little  Master  of  Ceremonies"  must  have 
been  his  successor. 

Bath,  April  26,  1766. 
To  Miss  WILLIS,  AT  GLOUCESTER. 

My  Dearest   Companion:     The    pleasure   I   received    from 
yours,  which  came  to  hand  yesterday,  is  not  to  be  expressed.    Letter  from 
Love  and  friendship  are,  without  doubt,  charming  passions  ;    Lydia  Medford. 
which  absence  serves  only  to  heighten  and  improve.     Your 
kind  present  of  the  garnet  bracelets  I  shall  keep  as  carefully  as 
I  preserve  my  own  life  ;  and  I  beg  you  will  accept,  in  return,  of 
my   heart    house-wife,  with    the    tortoise-shell    memorandum 
book,  as  a  trifling  pledge  of  my  unalterable  affection. 

Bath  is  to  me  a  new  world — all  is  gaiety,  good  humor,  and 
diversion.  The  eye  is  continually  entertained  with  splendor  of 
dress  and  equipage  ;  and  the  ear  with  the  sound  of  coaches, 
chaises,  chairs,  and  other  carriages.  The  merry  bells  ring 
round  from  morn  till  night.  Then  we  are  welcomed  by  the 


288    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


The  Master  of 
Ceremonies. 


Ladies  in  the 
bath. 


The  pump- 
room. 


city  waits  in  our  own  lodgings  ;  we  have  music  in  the  pump- 
room  every  morning,  cotillions  every  forenoon  in  the  room, 
balls  twice  a  week,  and  concerts  every  other  night,  besides  pri- 
vate assemblies  and  parties  without  number.  As  soon  as  we 
were  settled  in  our  lodgings,  we  were  visited  by  the  Master  of 
the  Ceremonies  ;  a  pretty  little  gentleman,  so  sweet,  so  fine,  so 
civil,  and  polite,  that  in  our  country  he  might  pass  for  the 
Prince  of  Wales  :  then  he  talks  so  charmingly,  both  in  verse 
and  prose,  that  you  would  be  delighted  to  hear  him  discourse  ; 
for  you  must  know  he  is  a  great  writer,  and  has  got  five  trage- 
dies ready  for  the  stage.  He  did  us  the  favor  to  dine  with  us 
by  my  uncle's  invitation  ;  and  the  next  day  squired  my  aunt 
and  me  to  every  part  of  Bath  ;  which,  to  be  sure,  is  an  earthly 
paradise.  The  Square,  the  Circus,  and  the  Parades  put  you  in 
mind  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  represented  in  prints  and  pic- 
tures ;  and  the  new  buildings,  such  as  Princes-row,  Harlequin's- 
row,  Bladud's-row,  and  twenty  other  rows,  look  like  so  many 
enchanted  palaces  raised  on  hanging  terraces. 

At  eight  in  the  morning  we  go  in  dishabille  to  the  pump- 
room  ;  which  is  crowded  like  a  Welch  fair  ;  and  there  you  see 
the  highest  quality  and  the  lowest  trades-folk  jostling  each 
other,  without  ceremony,  hail-fellow  well-met.  The  noise  of 
the  music  playing  in  the  gallery,  the  heat  and  flavor  of  such  a 
crowd,  and  the  hum  and  buzz  of  their  conversation,  gave  me 
the  headache  and  vertigo  the  first  day  ;  but  afterward  all  these 
things  became  familiar,  and  even  agreeable.  Right  under  the 
pump-room  windows  is  the  King's  Batli  ;  a  huge  cistern,  where 
you  see  the  patients  up  to  their  necks  in  hot  water.  The  ladies 
wear  jackets  and  petticoats  of  brown  linen,  with  chip  hats,  in 
which  they  fix  their  handkerchiefs  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  their 
faces  ;  but,  truly,  whether  it  is  owing  to  the  steam  that  sur- 
rounds them,  or  to  the  heat  of  the  water,  or  the  nature  of  the 
dress,  or  to  all  three  causes  together,  they  look  so  flushed,  and 
so  frightful,  that  I  always  turn  my  eyes  another  way. 

For  my  part,  I  content  myself  with  drinking  about  half  a 
pint  of  the  water  every  morning.  The  pumper,  with  his  wife 
and  servant,  attend  within  a  bar ;  and  the  glasses,  of  different 
sizes,  siand  ranged  in  order  before  them,  so  that  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  point  at  that  which  you  choose,  and  it  is 
filled  immediately,  hot  and  sparkling  from  the  pump.  It  is 
the  only  water  I  could  ever  drink  without  being  sick.  Far  from 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  289 

having  that  effect,  it  is  rather  agreeable  to  the  taste,  grateful  to 
the  stomach,  and  reviving  to  the  spirits.  You  cannot  imagine 
what  wonderful  cures  it  performs.  My  uncle  began  with  it  the 
other  day,  but  he  made  wry  faces  in  drinking,  and  I  am  afraid 
he  will  leave  it  off. 

Hard  by  the  pump-room  is  a  coffee-house  for  the  ladies  ;  but 
my  aunt  says  young  girls  are  not  admitted,  inasmuch  as  the  Coffee-house, 
conversation  turns  upon  politics,  scandal,  philosophy,  and 
other  subjects  above  our  capacity ;  but  we  are  allowed  to 
accompany  them  to  the  booksellers'  shops,  which  are  charming 
places  of  resort,  where  we  read  novels,  plays,  pamphlets,  and 
newspapers,  for  so  small  a  subscription  as  a  crown  a  quarter  ; 
and  in  these  offices  of  intelligence  (as  my  brother  calls  them), 
all  the  reports  of  the  day,  and  all  the  private  transactions  of  the 
Bath,  are  first  entered  and  discussed.  From  the  booksellers' 
shop  we  make  a  tour  through  the  milliners  and  toy-men  ;  and 
commonly  stop  at  Mr.  Gills,  the  pastry-cook,  to  take  a  jelly,  a 
tart,  or  a  small  basin  of  vermicelli.  There  is,  moreover, 
another  place  of  entertainment  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
opposite  the  Grove,  to  which  the  company  cross  over  in  a  boat. 
It  is  called  the  Spring  Gardens  ;  a  sweet  retreat,  laid  out  in  spring 
walks  and  ponds,  and  parterres  of  flowers  ;  and  there  is  a  long  Gardens, 
room  for  breakfasting  and  dancing.  As  the  situation  is  low 
and  damp,  and  the  season  has  been  remarkably  wet,  my  uncle 
won't  suffer  me  to  go  thither,  lest  I  should  catch  cold  ;  but  my 
aunt  says  it  is  all  a  vulgar  prejudice  ;  and,  to  be  sure,  a  great 
many  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  Ireland  frequent  the  place  with- 
out seeming  to  be  the  worse  for  it.  They  say  dancing  at 
Spring  Gardens,  when  the  air  is  moist,  is  recommended  to 
them  as  an  excellent  cure  for  rheumatism.  I  have  been  twice 
at  the  play,  and  the  decorations  of  the  theater  are  very  fine. 

After  all,  the  great  scenes  of  entertainment  at  Bath  are  the 
two  public  rooms,  where  the  company  meet  alternatively  every 
evening.  They  are  spacious,  lofty,  and  when  lighted  up 
appear  very  striking.  They  are  generally  crowded  with  well- 
dressed  people,  who  drink  tea  in  separate  parties,  play  at 
cards,  walk,  or  sit  or  chat  together,  just  as  they  are  disposed. 
Twice  a  week  there  is  a  ball,  the  expense  of  which  is  defrayed 
by  a  voluntary  subscription  among  the  gentlemen,  and  every  -r^e  ball-room 
subscriber  has  three  tickets.  I  was  there  Friday  last  with  my 
aunt,  under  the  care  of  my  brother,  who  is  a  subscriber.  The 


290    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

place  was  so  hot  and  the  smell  so  different  from  what  we 
are  used  to  in  the  country  that  I  was  quite  feverish  when  we 
came  away.  Aunt  says  it  is  the  effect  of  a  vulgar  constitution, 
reared  among  woods  and  mountains,  and  that,  as  I  become 
accustomed  to  genteel  company,  it  will  wear  off.  But  I  am 
afraid  I  have  put  you  out  of  all  patience  with  this  long,  uncon- 
nected scrawl ;  which  I  shall  therefore  conclude,  with  assuring 
you  that  neither  Bath  nor  London,  nor  all  the  diversions  of  life, 
shall  ever  be  able  to  efface  the  idea  of  my  dear  Letty  from  the 
heart  of  your  ever  affectionate, 

LYDIA  MEDFORD. 

Evelina,  just  before  she  became  Lady  Orville,  was 
taken  to  Bath,  in  company  with  some  of  her  friends, 

Evelina  at 

Bath.  amongst  them  the  beau  who  tormented  her  at  the  ball. 

She  writes  : 

The  charming  city  of  Bath  answered  all  my  expectations. 
The  Crescent,  the  prospect  from  it,  and  the  elegant  symmetry 
of  the  Circus,  delighted  me.  The  Parades,  I  own,  rather  dis- 
appointed me  ;  one  of  them  is  scarce  preferable  to  some  of  the 
best  paved  streets  in  London  ;  and  the  other,  though  it  affords 
a  beautiful  prospect,  a  charming  view  of  Prior  Park  and  of  the 
Avon,  yet  wanted  something  in  itself  of  more  striking  elegance 
than  a  mere  broad  pavement,  to  satisfy  the  ideas  I  had  formed 
of  it. 

At  the  pump-room,  I  was  amazed  at  the  public  exhibition  of 
the  ladies  in  the  bath  ;  it  is  true,  their  heads  are  covered  with 
bonnets  ;  but  the  very  idea  of  being  seen  in  such  a  situation  by 
whoever  pleases  to  look  is  indelicate. 

"  Really  now,"  cried  Mr.  Lovel,  looking  into  the  bath,  "I 

must  confess  it  is,  to  me,  very  incomprehensible  why  the  ladies 

The  bathing         choose  that  frightful  unbecoming  dress  to  bathe  in  !     I  have 

often  pondered  very  seriously   upon   the  subject,  but  could 

never  hit  upon  the  reason." 

"Well,  I  declare,"  said  Lady  Louisa,  "  I  should  like  of  all 
things  to  set  something  new  a-going  ;  I  always  hated  bathing, 
because  one  can  get  no  pretty  dress  for  it !  now  do,  there's  a 
good  creature,  try  to  help  me  to  something." 

"Who,  me  ! — O  dear,  ma'am,"  said  he,  simpering,  "I  can't 
pretend  to  assist  a  person  of  your  ladyship's  taste  ;  besides  I 


Beau  Nash  and  Bath.  291 

have  not  the  least  head  for  fashions.  I  really  don't  think  I  ever 
invented  above  three  in  my  life  !  but  I  never  had  the  least  turn 
for  dress — never  any  notion  of  fancy  or  elegance." 

"  Oh,  fie,  Mr.  Lovel !  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  " 

"The  Bath  amusements,"  said  Lord  Orville,  "have  a  same- 
ness in  them,  which,  after  a  short  time,  renders  them  rather 
insipid  ;  but  the  greatest  objection  that  can  be  made  to  the 
place  is  the  encouragement  it  gives  to  gamesters." 

"Why,  I  hope,  my  lord,  you  would  not  think  of  abolishing   Gamjn 
gaming,'1''  cried  Lord  Merton,  "  'tis  the  very  zest  of  life  !    Devil 
take  me  if  I  could  live  without  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Lord  Orville  gravely. 

"Evelina"  was  written  in  1778,  yet  the  same  singular 
customs  of  the  pump-room  were  still  extant. 

Horace  Walpole  had  a  low  opinion  of  the  place,  and 
as  far  as  we  know  avoided  it. 

In  Miss  Austen's  "  Persuasion,"  written  in  1816,  the 
characters  visit  Bath,  no  longer  in  its  early  splendor,  and 
settled  into  an  agreeable  resort  for  people  in  search  of 
health  and  variety,  rather  than  the  excesses  of  fashion. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Life  of  Beau  Nash.  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
Smollett's  Life,  and  Humphrey  Clinker. 
Mrs.  Barbauld's  British  Novelists,  Vol.  30. 


BOOK  X. 

MRS.   RADCLIFFE  AND  HER  FOL- 
LOWERS. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  immense  success  of  Walpole's  original  and  really 
Ann  Radciiffe.  clever  "  Castle  of  Otranto  "  encouraged  other  and  more 
accomplished  artists  to  follow  in  the  same  track.  The 
first  name  on  the  list  is  Ann  Radciiffe,  whose  romances 
exhibit  a  surprising  power  over  the  emotions  of  fear 
and  undefined  mysterious  suspense.  Her  two  greatest 
works  are  "The  Romance  of  the  Forest"  and  "The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho."  Her  favorite  scenery  is  that 
of  Italy  and  the  south  of  France,  the  ruined  castles  of 
the  Pyrenees  and  the  Apennines  form  the  theater,  and 
the  dark  passions  of  profligate  Italian  counts  the  princi- 
pal moving  power,  of  her  wonderful  fictions.  The  sub- 
stance of  them  is  all  pretty  much  the  same  ;  mystery  is 
the  spell ;  the  personages  are  made  to  suffer  such 
extremities  of  terror  and  intense  suffering,  and,  above 
all,  suspense,  that  we  sympathize  with  their  fate  as  if 
they  were  real. 

Ann  Radciiffe  was  born  in  London  in  1764  ;  she  died 
death and  therein  1823.     Her  maiden  name  was  Ward.     At  the 

age  of  twenty-two  she  married  Mr.  William  Radciiffe,  a 
law  student,  who  afterward  became  the  editor  and  pro- 
prietor of  a  weekly  newspaper,  The  English  Chronicle. 
Her  first  novel,  called  the  "Castles  of  Athlin  and 
Dunbayne,"  I  have  never  seen.  Probably  it  no  longer 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  293 

exists.  It  is  said  to  have  given  no  great  indication 
of  her  future  powers,  though  it  presented  the  wild,  im- 
probable plot  and  unnatural  characters  of  her  later 
writings.  "The  Sicilian  Romance"  is  better,  and 
"The  Romance  of  the  Forest"  is  sufficient  of  itself  to 
put  her  at  the  head  of  all  writers  of  melodramatic 
romance.  "The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  "  (1790),  how- 
ever, is  undoubtedly  her  masterpiece.  Her  last  novel, 
"The  Italian,"  deals  with  racks,  tortures,  dungeons,  and 
confessionals,  and  is  not  equal  to  the  others. 

The  chief  peculiarity  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe' s  work,  in 
which  it  differs  from  the  plan  of  the  ' '  Castle  of  Peculiarity  of 
Otranto,"  is  that,  toward  the  close  of  all  her  stories,  she  cliffe's  work, 
carefully  explains  away  all  the  mysteries  as  incidents 
produced  by  natural  and  generally  insignificant  agencies. 
This  gives  the  writer  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  de- 
tracts from  the  effect  of  her  powerful  descriptions.  The 
strange  part  of  it  is  that  her  contemporaries  remained 
just  as  much  frightened  after  the  horrors  were  explained 
.as  they  were  before,  and  real  young  ladies  continued 
to  tremble  at  mysterious  sounds  and  subterranean 
passages,  after  Mrs.  Radcliffe  had  told  them  over  and 
over  again  that  there  was  nothing  in  them. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe' s  work  had  many  imitators  ;  and  thus 
was  inaugurated  a  period  of  intense  sentiment  and 
effusion  of  style  which  produced  a  quantity  of  rubbish 
much  beloved  by  our  grandmothers. 

But  I  still  find  a  great  charm  in  Mrs.  Radcliffe' s 
description  of  scenes  she  never  saw,  and  must  confess 
being  able  to  thrill  with  the  terrors  she  desires  to  excite. 
She  was  an  indefatigable  writer,  and  I  think  her  plan 
was  to  publish  a  book  once  in  two  years  or  thereabouts. 
I  imagine  her  sitting  comfortably  in  London  and  writing 
about  crags  and  ravines  in  Southern  France  without  any 


294    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

real  knowledge  of  landscape  outside  of  England.  It 
seems  that  she  made  once  a  tour  through  Germany  ~ 
it  is  strange  that  all  her  novels  are  laid  elsewhere.  I  do 
not  believe  she  ever  saw  Gascony  or  the  Apennines. 
Evidently  she  was  a  diligent  reader,  and  wrote  with  the 
map  before  her. 

"The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  is  immensely  long,  three 
Three  thick         thick  volumes,   of  which  the  plot  is  most  complicated. 

volumes.  l  _ 

The  character  of  the  heroine  is  sweet  and  attractive.      I 
find    her   quite   human.     As    for   Valancourt,   who    is, 
in  fact,  out  of  the  book  most  of  the  time,  either  at  the 
wars,  or  in  prison  for  other  people's  crimes,  he  was  the 
idol  of  all  novel  readers  of  his  day  and  generation. 

I  must  limit  my  extracts  chiefly  to  the  description  of 
the  castle  of  Udolpho,  a  universal  synonym  for  terror 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  ;  but  I 
cannot  resist  transcribing  the  opening  of  the  tale,  for 
its  really  graceful  expression.  Every  chapter,  by  the 
way,  has  a  poetic  quotation  at  its  head,  and  original 
poems  by  Mrs.  Ann  are  scattered  through  all  her  books. 

.     .     .     Home  is  the  resort 
Of  love,  of  joy,  of  peace  and  plenty,  where, 
Supporting  and  supported,  polished  friends 
And  dear  relations  mingle  into  bliss. 

—  Thomson. 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Garonne,  in  the  province  of 
Gascony,  stood,  in  the  year  1584,  the  chateau  of  Monsieur  St. 
"The'"8  Aubert.     From  its  windows  were  seen  the  pastoral  landscapes 

ndSitehie^>of  °f  Guienne  and  Gascony  stretching  along  the  river,  gay  with 
luxuriant  woods  and  vines,  and  plantations  of  olives.  To  the 
south  the  view  was  bounded  by  the  majestic  Pyrenees,  whose 
summits  veiled  in  clouds,  or  exhibiting  awful  forms,  seen,  and 
lost  again,  as  the  partial  vapors  rolled  along,  were  some- 
times barren,  and  gleamed  through  the  blue  tinge  of  air,  and 
sometimes  frowned  with  forests  of  gloomy  pine,  that  swept 
downward  to  their  base.  These  tremendous  precipices  were 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  295 

contrasted  by  the  soft  green  of  the  pastures  and  woods  that 
hung  upon  their  skirts  ;  among  whose  flocks  and  herds  and 
simple  cottages,  the  eye,  after  having  scaled  the  cliffs  above, 
delighted  to  repose.  To  the  north  and  to  the  east,  the  plains  of 
Guienne  and  Languedoc  were  lost  in  the  mist  of  distance  ;  on 
the  west  Gascony  was  bounded  by  the  Bay  of  Biscay. 

There  were  stirring  times  in  France  and  Navarre  at 
the  end  of  this  sixteenth  century,  but  I  have  never 
encountered  any  reference  in  "The  Mysteries"  to  the 
political  situation. 

We  must  leave  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Garonne  and   Among  the 
convey  the  reader  by  force,  as  Emily  was  taken,  to  the  APennlnes- 
neighborhood  of  the  castle  which  gives  its  name  to  the 
book,  situated  somewhere  among  the  Apennines. 

Wild  and  romantic  as  were  these  scenes,  their  character  had 
far  less  of  the  sublime  than  had  those  of  the  Alps  which  guard 
the  entrance  of  Italy.  Emily  was  often  elevated,  but  seldom 
felt  those  emotions  of  indescribable  awe  which  she  had  so  con- 
tinually experienced  in  her  passage  over  the  Alps. 

Toward  the  close  of  day,  the  road  wound  into  a  deep  valley. 
Mountains  whose  shaggy  steeps  seemed  to  be  inaccessible 
almost  surrounded  it.  To  the  east  a  vista  opened,  and  exhib- 
ited the  Apennines  in  their  darkest  horrors  ;  and  the  long 
perspective  of  retiring  summits  rising  over  each  other,  their 
ridges  clothed  with  pines,  exhibited  a  stranger  image  of  gran- 
deur than  any  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had  just  sunk 
below  the  top  of  the  mountains  she  was  descending,  whose 
long  shadow  stretched  athwart  the  valley,  but  his  sloping 
rays  shooting  through  an  opening  of  the  cliff  touched  with  a 
yellow  gleam  the  summits  of  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the 
opposite  steeps,  and  streamed  in  full  splendor  upon  the  towns 
and  battlements  of  a  castle  that  spread  its  extensive  ramparts 
along  the  brow  of  a  precipice  above.  The  splendor  of  these 
illuminated  objects  was  heightened  by  the  contrasted  shade 
which  involved  the  valley  below. 

"There,"  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  several 

hours,   "isUDOLPHO."  Udolpho. 

Montoni  is  the  villain  who  is  in  possession  of  Emily 


296    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

for  the  moment,    having   suddenly   married   her  aunt. 

Emily,  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon  the  castle  which  she 
understood  to  be  Montoni's — for  though  it  was  now  lighted  up 
by  the  setting  sun,  the  Gothic  greatness  of  its  features,  and  its 
moldering  walls  of  dark  gray  stone,  rendered  it  a  gloomy  and 
sublime  object.  As  she  gazed,  the  light  died  away  on  its  walls, 
leaving  a  melancholy  purple  tint  which  spread  deeper  and 
deeper  as  the  thin  vapor  crept  up  the  mountain,  while  the 
battlements  above  were  still  tipped  with  splendor.  From  these 
too  the  rays  soon  faded  and  the  whole  edifice  was  invested 
with  the  solemn  duskiness  of  evening.  .  .  . 

At  length  the  carriages  emerged  upon  a  heathy  rock,  and 

soon  after  reached  the  castle  gates,  where  the  deep  tones  of  the 

portal  bell,   which  was  struck  upon  to  give  notice  of  their 

Fearful  arrival,  increased  the  fearful  emotions  that  had  assailed  Emily. 

emotions  of  ' 

Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the  servant  within  should    come  to- 

open  the  gates,  she  anxiously  surveyed  the  edifice  ;  but  the 
gloom  that  overspread  it  allowed  her  to  distinguish  little  more 
than  a  part  of  its  outline,  with  the  mossy  walls  of  the  ramparts, 
and  to  know  that  it  was  vast,  ancient,  and  dreary.  While 
Emily  gazed  with  awe  upon  the  scene,  footsteps  were  heard 
within  the  gates,  and  the  undrawing  of  bolts  ;  after  which  aa 
ancient  servant  of  the  castle  appeared,  forcing  back  the  huge 
folds  of  the  portal  to  admit  his  lord.  As  the  carriage-wheels 
rolled  heavily  under  the  portcullis,  Emily's  heart  sunk,  and  she 
seemed  as  if  she  was  going  into  her  prison. 

Another  gate  delivered  them  into  the  second  court, 
grass-grown  and  more  wild  than  the  first. 

The  servant  who  came  to  light  Montoni  bowed  in  silence,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  countenance  relaxed  with  no  symptom  of 
joy.  Montoni  noticed  the  salutation  by  a  slight  motion  of  his 
head,  and  passed  on  ;  while  his  lady  [the  aunt  was  with  them] 
followed,  looking  round  with  a  degree  of  surprise  and  discon- 
tent which  she  seemed  fearful  of  expressing,  and  Emily,  sur- 
wonde?'d  veying  the  extent  and  grandeur  of  the  hall  in  timid  wonder. 

They  approached  a  marble  staircase,  where  the  arches  opened 
to  a  lofty  vault  from  the  center  of  which  hung  a  tripod  lamp 
which  a  servant  was  hastily  lighting,  and  the  rich  fret-work  of 
the  roof,  a  corridor  leading  into  several  upper  apartments  and 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  297 

a  painted  window,  stretching  nearly  from  the  pavement  to  the 
ceiling  of  the  hall,  became  gradually  visible. 

These  people  were  entirely  unexpected  by  their  vas-   _ 

f      f  *  J  The  arrival 

sals  at  the  castle,  which  explains  the  lack  of  preparation,    unexpected 

Having  crossed  the  foot  of  the  staircase  and  passed  through 
an  ante-room,  they  entered  a  spacious  apartment  whose  walls, 
wainscoted  with  black  larch  wood,  the  growth  of  the  neighbor- 
ing mountains,  were  scarcely  distinguishable  from  darkness 
itself. 

"  Bring  more  light,"  said  Montoni  as  he  entered.  The  serv- 
ant, setting  down  his  lamp,  was  withdrawing  to  obey  him,  when 
Madame  Montoni  observing  that  the  evening  air  of  this  moun- 
tainous region  was  cold,  and  that  she  should  like  a  fire,  Mon- 
toni ordered  that  wood  should  be  brought. 

While  he  paced  the  room  with  thoughtful  steps,  and  Madame 
Montoni  sate  silently  on  a  couch  at  the  upper  end  of  it,  waiting 
till  the  servant  returned,  Emily  was  observing  the  singular 
solemnity  and  desolation  of  the  apartment  viewed  as  it  now 
was  by  the  glimmer  of  the  single  lamp,  placed  near  a  large  ft",11^.presslve 
Venetian  mirror  that  duskily  reflected  the  scene,  with  the  tall 
figure  of  Montoni  passing  slowly  along,  his  arms  folded,  and 
his  countenance  shaded  by  the  plume  that  waved  in  his  hat. 

This  made  a  terrible  impression  on  the  grand- 
mothers. 

From  the  contemplation  of  this  scene,  Emily's  mind  pro- 
ceeded to  the  apprehension  of  what  she  might  suffer  in  it,  till 
the  remembrance  of  Valancourt,  far,  far  distant !  came  to  her 
heart,  and  softened  it  into  sorrow.  .  . 

Emily  rose  to  withdraw.  "Goodnight,  madame," 
she  said  to  her  aunt.  "  But  you  do  not  know  the  way 
to  your  chamber,"  said  the  aunt.  As  this  was  obvious, 
a  servant  was  sent  for.  This  was  Madame  Montoni' s 
maid,  Annette,  a  nice  prattling  person,  who  seemed  to 
have  been  finding  her  way  about  the  castle,  and  listening 
to  alarming  tales  from  the  servants. 

They  went  through  corridors  and  passage-ways,  los- 
ing their  way,  calling  in  vain  for  assistance,  and  finding 


298    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

themselves  at  last  at  the  head  of  the  marble  staircase 
where  they  started.  Annette  now  found  a  servant, 
who  conducted  Emily  to  her  chamber. 

It  was  in  a  remote  part  of  the  castle  at  the  very  end  of 
the  corridor  from  which  the  suite  of  apartments  opened 
Emily's  through  which  they  had  been  wandering.  The  lonely  aspect 

of  her  room  made  Emily  unwilling  that  Annette  should  leave 
her  immediately,  and  the  dampness  of  it  chilled  her  with  more 
than  fear.  She  entreated  Caterina  to  bring  some  wood  and 
light  a  fire,  of  which  the  bright  blaze  somewhat  dispelled  the 
gloom  of  the  chamber.  The  maid  dismissed,  Emily  examined 
her  room  and  its  furniture.  It  was  lofty  and  spacious,  like  those 
she  had  passed  through,  and  like  many  of  them  had  its  walls 
lined  with  dark  larch  wood.  The  bed  and  other  furniture  was 
very  ancient,  and  had  an  air  of  gloomy  grandeur,  like  all  that 
she  had  seen  in  the  castle.  One  of  the  high  casements  which 
she  opened  overlooked  a  rampart,  but  the  view  beyond  was 
hid  in  darkness. 

As  she  walked  round  it,  she  passed  a  door  that  was  not  quite 

shut ;  and  perceiving  that  it  was  not  the  one  through  which  she 

entered,  she  brought  the  light  to  discover  whither  it  led.     She 

opened  it,  and  going  forward  had  nearly  fallen  down  a  steep, 

A  _,  narrow  staircase  that  wound  from  it,  between  two  stone  walls. 

J\  bleep,   Ild.II  OW 

staircase.  She  wished  to  know  to  what  it  led,  and  was  the  more  anxious 

since  it  communicated  so  immediately  with  her  apartment ;  but 
in  the  present  state  of  her  spirits  she  wanted  courage  to  venture 
into  the  darkness  alone.  Closing  the  door,  therefore,  she  en- 
deavored to  fasten  it,  but  upon  further  examination  perceived 
that  it  had  no  bolts  on  the  chamber  side,  though  it  had  two  on 
the  other.  By  placing  a  heavy  chair  against  it,  she  in  some 
measure  remedied  the  defect ;  yet  she  was  still  alarmed  at  the 
thought  of  sleeping  in  this  remote  room  alone,  with  a  door 
opening  she  knew  not  whither. 

This  anxiety  was  increased  when  she  came  to  look  at 

this  door  the  next  day  and    found    that   it  had   been 

do'oryster  °US       fastened  on  the  outside  since  she  saw  it  first,  by  some 

unknown  person  for  some  unknown  reason.      But  this 

came  later.     On    the   evening   we   are   reading   about, 


Mrs.   Raddiffe  and  her  Followers.  299 

her  thoughts  recurred  to  her  strange  situation,  then  turned 
to  the  image  of  Valancourt ;  her  melancholy  was  assisted 
by  the  hollow  sighing  of  the  wind  along  the  corridor  and 
around  the  castle.  The  cheerful  blaze  of  the  wood  had  long 
been  extinguished,  and  she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
dying  embers,  till  a  loud  gust  that  swept  through  the  corridor 
and  shook  the  doors  and  casements  alarmed  her  ;  for  its 
violence  had  moved  the  chair  she  had  placed  as  a  fastening, 
and  the  door  leading  to  the  private  staircase  stood  half  open. 
Her  curiosity  and  her  fears  were  again  awakened.  She  took 
the  lamp  to  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  stood  hesitating  whether 
to  go  down  ;  but  again  the  profound  stillness  and  gloom  of  the 
place  awed  her,  and  determining  to  inquire  further  when  day- 
light might  assist  the  search,  she  closed  the  door  and  placed 
against  it  a  stronger  guard. 

She  now  retired  to  her  bed,  leaving  the  lamp  burning  on  the      .        ... 
table  ;  but  its  gloomy  light,  instead  of  dispelling  her  fear,    the  castle, 
assisted  it ;  for  by  its  uncertain  rays  she  almost  fancied  she  saw 
shapes  flit  past  her  curtains  and  glide  into  the  remote  obscurity 
of  her  chamber.    The  castle  clock  struck  one  before  she  closed 
her  eyes  in  sleep. 

Thus  ends  Emily's  first  night  in  the  castle  of  Udolpho. 

Next  morning,  Emily  requested  to  be  changed  into 
another  room  without  questionable  doors  and  communi- 
cating stairways,  but  this  being  refused  she  determined 
to  bear  with  patience  the  evil  she  could  not  remove. 

In  order  to  make  her  room  as  comfortable  as  possible,  she 
unpacked  her  books,  her  sweet  delight  in  happier  days,  and 
her  soothing  resource  in  the  hours  of  moderate  sorrow  ;  but 
there  were  hours  when  even  these  failed  of  their  effect,  when 
the  genius,  the  taste,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  sublimest  writers 
were  felt  no  longer. 

Her  little  library  being  arranged  on  a  high  chest,  part  of  the 
furniture  of  the  room,  she  took  out  her  drawing  utensils  and  Emily's  little 
was  tranquil  enough  to  be  pleased  with  the  thought  of  sketch- 
ing the  sublime  scenes  beheld  from  her  windows  ;  but  she  sud- 
denly checked  this  pleasure,  not  from  the  difficulty  of  the 
subject,  but  because  remembering  how  often  she  had  soothed 
herself  by  the  intention  of  obtaining  amusement  of  this  kind,  and 


300    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth 


The  veiled 
picture. 


Unsatisfied 
curiosity. 


had  been  prevented  by  some  new  circumstance  of  misfortune. 

To  withdraw  her  thoughts,  however,  from  the  subject  of  her 
misfortunes,  she  attempted  to  read  ;  but  her  attention  wandered 
from  the  page,  and  at  length  she  threw  aside  the  book  and  de- 
termined to  explore  the  adjoining  chambers  of  the  castle.  Her 
imagination  was  pleased  with  the  view  of  ancient  grandeur, 
and  an  emotion  of  melancholy  awe  awakened  all  its  powers,  as 
she  walked  through  rooms  obscure  and  desolate,  where  no 
footsteps  had  passed  probably  for  many  years,  and  remembered 
all  the  legends  existing  of  the  former  possessors  of  the  edifice. 

This  brought  to  her  recollection  a  veiled  picture  which  had 
attracted  her  curiosity  on  the  preceding  night  while  she,  with 
Annette,  was  vainly  seeking  her  chamber,  as  they  passed 
through  one  of  the  vast  deserted  apartments. 

As  she  traversed  the  chambers  that  led  to  this  one,  she  found 
herself  somewhat  agitated  ;  but  a  terror  of  this  nature,  as  it 
occupies  and  expands  the  mind,  and  elevates  it  to  high  expec- 
tation, is  purely  sublime,  and  leads  us,  by  a  kind  of  fascination, 
to  seek  even  the  object  from  which  we  appear  to  shrink.  .  .  . 

Emily  passed  on  with  faltering  steps  ;  and  having  paused  a 
moment  at  the  door  before  she  attempted  to  open  it,  she  then 
hastily  entered  the  chamber,  and  went  toward  the  picture, 
which  appeared  to  be  enclosed  in  a  frame  of  uncommon  size, 
that  hung  in  a  dark  part  of  the  room.  She  paused  again,  and 
then  with  a  timid  hand  lifted  the  veil  ;  but  instantly  let  it  fall — 
perceiving  that  what  it  contained  was  no  picture,  and  before 
she  could  leave  the  chamber  she  dropped  senseless  on  the  floor. 

Here  we  must  leave  the  poor  Emily  ;  and  if  it  seems 
cruel  to  furnish  no  explanation  of  what  she  saw,  it  is  no 
worse  than  what  Mrs.  Radcliffe  was  capable  of,  for  even 
the  details  of  the  sight  were  long  denied  her  readers  ; 
and  the  natural  explanation  of  it,  which  removed  every 
idea  of  the  horrible,  to  supply  its  place  by  that  of  ex- 
treme unpleasantness,  is  postponed  to  the  very  end  of 
the  work. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

"THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  ABBEY"  was  published  in 
1796.    and  has.    in  a  way.    survived    the   greater   part  "The Children 

J  °  r  of  the  Abbey." 

of  the  romances  written  after  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  It  re- 
mained even  to  the  middle  of  our  century  a  favorite 
with  its  own  class  of  readers,  and  has  been  several  times 
reprinted.  It  was  written  by  Regina  Maria  Roche, 
a  lady  whom  I  have  been  unable  to  find  anything 
about.  Her  style  is  sprightly  and  original,  and  her 
plan  differs  from  that  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe,  in  that  the  latter 
deals  with  ghosts,  mysterious  sounds,  and  numerous 
murders  that  for  the  most  part  turn  out  to  amount 
in  nothing  at  all  ;  while  Regina  Maria  keeps  a  real 
grandmother  immured  in  an  abbey  for  a  whole  book. 
There  is  a  certain  vivacity  in  the  movement  of  the  char- 
acters, which  on  the  whole  makes  them  a  bit  more 
human  than  Mrs.  Radcliffe' s,  but  not  so  much  literary 
ability  appears  in  her  construction  of  the  plot,  if  there 
be  any.  As  for  the  picture  of  manners,  in  the  extracts  I 
give,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  it  a  very  faithful  one.  Too 
much  imagination  is  mingled  with  the  descriptions  for 
them  to  appear  trustworthy. 

Yellow  sheafs  from  rich  Ceres  the  cottage  had  crowned, 

Green  rushes  were  strewed  on  the  floor  ; 
The  casements  sweet  woodbine  crept  wantonly  round, 

And  decked  the  sod  seats  at  the  door. 

—  Cunningham. 

Hail,  sweet  asylum  of  my  infancy !     Content  and  innocence 

reside  beneath  your  humble  roof,  and  charity  unboastful  of  the   The  first 

...  TT   -i  u         •     A  L  chapter  opens, 

good  it  renders.     Hail,  ye  venerable  trees  !  my  happiest  hours 

of  childish   gaiety  were   passed  beneath  your  shelter — then, 

301 


302    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

careless  as  the  birds  that  sung  upon  your  boughs,  I  laughed 
the  hours  away,  nor  knew  of  evil. 

Here  surely  I  shall  be  guarded  from  duplicity  ;  and  if  not 
happy,  at  least  in  some  degree  tranquil.  Here  unmolested 
may  I  wait,  till  the  rude  storm  of  sorrow  is  overblown,  and  my 
father's  arms  are  again  expanded  to  receive  me. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Amanda  at  the  beginning  of 
the  book,  but  the  reader  is  instantly  snatched  away  to  the 
remote  past,  and  a  still  more  remote  part  of  the  kingdom 
of  Scotland,  to  learn  the  early  history  of  her  parents  and 
especially  of  her  mother,  the  unfortunate  Malvina. 

Here  there  was  a  fine  old  abbey,  belonging  to  the  family 
Fine  old  abbey     of  Dunreath  ;  the  high  hills  which  nearly  encompassed  it  were 
ofDunreath.        almost  all  covered  with   trees,  whose  dark  shades  gave  an 
appearance  of  gloomy  solitude  to  the  building. 

The  present  possessor,  the  Earl  of  Dunreath,  was  now  far 
advanced  in  life  ;  twice  had  he  married,  in  expectation  of  a 
male  heir  to  his  large  estates,  and  twice  he  had  been 
disappointed. 

Here  is  the  description  of  two  beautiful  portraits 
of  the  earl's  daughters,  painted  by  an  artist  who  had 
come  to  the  abbey  expressly  at  his  desire,  to  draw  them. 

In  one  of  them  Lady  Augusta  appeared  negligently  reclined 
upon  a  sofa,  in  a  verdant  alcove  ;  the  flowing  drapery  of  the 
loose  robe  in  which  she  was  habited  set  off  her  fine  figure  ; 
little  cupids  were  seen  fanning  aside  her  dark-brown  hair,  and 
strewing  roses  on  her  pillow. 

In  the  other  Lady  Malvina  was  represented  in  the  simple 
attire  of  a  peasant  girl,  leaning  on  a  little  grassy  hillock,  whose 
foot  was  washed  by  a  clear  stream,  while  her  flocks  browsed 
around,  and  her  dog  rested  beneath  the  shade  of  an  old  tree, 
that  waved  its  branches  over  her  head,  and  seemed  sheltering 
her  from  the  beams  of  a  meridian  sun. 


Marriage  of  Of  these,  it  was  Malvina,  the  unfortunate  and  perse- 

cuted, who  unwise 
ing  circumstances 


Fitzaian.anc        cuted,  who  unwisely  married  Fitzalan  under  the  follow- 


Mrs.  Raddiffe  and  her  Followers.  303 

It  was  long  past  the  midnight  hour  ere  Malvina  would 
attempt  repairing  to  the  chapel ;  when  she  at  last  rose  for  that 
purpose  she  trembled  universally  ;  a  kind  of  horror  chilled  her 
heart  ;  she  began  to  fear  she  was  about  doing  wrong,  and 
hesitated  ;  but  when  she  reflected  on  the  noble  generosity  of 
Fitzalan,  and  that  she  herself  had  precipitated  him  into  the 
measure  they  were  about  taking,  her  hesitation  was  over  ; 
and  leaning  on  her  maid,  she  stole  through  the  winding 
galleries,  and,  lightly  descending  the  stairs,  entered  the  long 
hall,  which  terminated  in  a  dark  arched  passage,  that  opened 
into  the  chapel. 

This  was  a  wild  and  gloomy  structure,  retaining  everywhere 
vestiges  of  that  monkish  superstition  which  had  erected  it ;  be- 
neath were  the  vaults  which  contained  the  ancestors  of  the 
Earl  of  Dunreath,  whose  deeds  and  titles  were  enumerated  on 
Gothic  monuments  ;  their  dust-covered  banners  waving  around 
in  sullen  dignity  to  the  rude  gale,  which  found  admittance 
through  the  broken  windows. 

No  good  came  of  this  marriage,  except  the  long  and   Two  children 
agitating   history    of    their    t\vo    children,    Oscar    and  Amanda"1 
Amanda  Malvina.     These  characters  were  such  favorites 
with  the  grandmothers,  that  many  children  in  the  early 
years  of  our  century  were  christened  with  their  names. 
We   shall  return  to  the  abbey  later  on,   but  it  is  now 
with  Amanda  Malvina,  our  heroine,  and  her  hero  that 
we  have  to  do. 

Lord  Mortimer  was  now  in  the  glowing  prime  of  life  :  his 
person  was  strikingly  elegant  and  his  manners  insinuatingly 
pleasing  ;  seducing  sweetness  dwelt  in  his  smile,  and,  as  he  descri 
pleased,  his  expressive  eyes  could  sparkle  with  intelligence  or 
beam  with  sensibility ;  and  to  the  eloquence  of  his  language, 
the  harmony  of  his  voice  imparted  a  charm  that  seldom  failed 
of  being  irresistible  ;  his  soul  was  naturally  the  seat  of  every 
virtue  ;  but  an  elevated  rank,  and  splendid  fortune,  had  placed 
him  in  a  situation  somewhat  inimical  to  their  interests,  for  he 
had  not  always  strength  to  resist  the  strong  temptations  which 
surrounded  him  ;  but  though  he  sometimes  wandered  from  the 
boundaries  of  virtue,  he  had  never  yet  entered  upon  the  con- 


304    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Amanda's 
flight. 


Amanda  at  the 
ball. 


fines  of  vice — never  really  injured  innocence,  or  done  a  deed 
which  could  wound  the  bosom  of  a  friend  ;  his  heart  was  alive 
to  every  noble  propensity  of  nature  ;  compassion  was  one  of  its 
strongest  feelings,  and  never  did  his  hand  refuse  obedience  to 
the  generous  impulse.  Among  the  various  accomplishments 
he  possessed  was  an  exquisite  taste  for  music,  which,  with 
every  other  talent,  had  been  cultivated  to  the  highest  degree  of 
possible  perfection  ;  his  spending  many  years  abroad  had  given 
him  every  requisite  advantage  for  improving  it.  The  soft, 
melodious  voice  of  Amanda  would  of  itself  almost  have  made 
a  conquest  of  his  heart  ;  but  aided  by  the  charms  of  her  face 
and  person,  altogether  were  irresistible. 

Their  love  was  progressing  favorably  until  circum- 
stances, and  Amanda's  father,  tore  her  abruptly  away 
from  Mortimer,  who  was  not  even  informed  of  her 
flight,  to  the  north  of  Ireland,  stopping  at  Dublin  to 
see  Oscar,  who  was  there  with  his  regiment.  So,  in  the 
words  of  the  author, 

We  shall  now  bid  adieu  to  Oscar  for  the  present,  and,  draw- 
ing on  our  boots  of  seven  leagues,  step  after  Fitzalan  and 
Amanda. 

It  is  possible  that  the  present  reader  may  not  see 
Oscar  again  till  the  end  of  these  extracts. 

After  a  pleasant  journey,  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth 
day,  our  travelers  arrived  at  their  destined  habitation, 
Castle  Carberry.  Here,  strange  to  say,  she  found 
good  society  ;  amongst  others,  fashionable  people  from 
London,  and  went  to  a  ball  to  which  she  was  invited. 

She  wore  a  robe  of  plain  white  lutestring,  and  a  crape  tur- 
ban, ornamented  with  a  plume  of  drooping  feathers.  She  had 
no  appearance  of  finery,  except  a  chain  of  pearls  about  her 
bosom,  from  which  hung  her  mother's  picture,  and  a  light 
wreath  of  embroidered  laurel,  intermingled  with  silver  blos- 
soms, round  her  petticoat.  Her  hair,  in  its  o\vn  native  and 
glossy  hue,  floated  on  her  shoulders,  and  partly  shaded  a  cheek 
where  the  purity  of  the  lily  was  tinted  with  the  softest  bloom  of 
the  rose. 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  305 

At  this  ball  she  met  her  Dunreath  relatives,  her  aunt, 
Lady  Augusta,  now  Marchioness  of  Roslin,  with  her 
disagreeable  daughter,  Lady  Euphrasia.  These  con- 
nections had  cast  off  her  mother,  and  now  ignored  her, 
on  account  of  the  midnight  marriage  in  the  abbey. 

Here    also    was    Lord    Mortimer,  paying    attentions   , 

Coldness  ot 

(though  unwillingly)  to  Lady  Euphrasia  to  oblige  his   Lord  Mortimer. 

father.     He  took  no  notice  of  Amanda  Malvina,  being, 

with  reason,  deeply  offended  with  her  on  account  of  her 

sudden  departure  from  his  neighborhood.     So  the  poor 

girl  had  but  a  sad  time  at  the  ball,  and  it  would  have 

been   worse    but   for   a   new   admirer   who   was   much 

attracted  by  her  charms  and  extremely  kind  to  her. 

There  was  an  old  Lady  Greystock  at  Carberry,  who 
took  a  fancy  to  Amanda  and  invited  her  to  travel  with 
her  to  London,  as  her  companion. 

Here  she  met  her  cousins  again,  who  could  not  very    , 

J     Amanda  m 

well  help  recognizing  her,  and  accordingly  invited  her  London. 
to  dinner  and  to  a  brilliant  assembly  after  it,  where  Lady 
Euphrasia  persuaded  a  ' '  beau  "  to  "  quiz  the  ignorant 
Irish  country  girl." 

This  "fop"  is  so  like  Miss  Burney's  Lovel  in 
"  Evelina,"  it  would  seem  that  the  type  really  did  exist 
in  those  days. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  the  curiosities  of  London,  my 
dear?"  exclaimed  Freelove,  lolling  back  in  his  chair,  and  con- 
templating the  luster  of  his  buckles,  unconscious  of  the  ridicule 
he  excited. 

"  I  think  I  have,"  said  Amanda,  somewhat  archly,  and  glanc- 
ing at  him,  "  quite  an  original  in  its  kind."  Her  look,  as  well 
as  the  emphasis  on  her  words,  excited  another  laugh  at  his 
expense,  which  threw  him  into  a  momentary  confusion. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  as  he  recovered  from  it,  "the  Monument 
and  the  Tower  would  be  prodigious  fine  sights  to  you,  and  I 
make  it  a  particular  request  that  I  may  be  included  in  your 


306    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

party  whenever  you  visit  them,  particularly  the  last  place." 
"And  why,"  replied  Amanda,  "should  I  take  the  trouble  of 
visiting  wild  beasts,  when  every  day  I  may  see  animals  equally 
strange,  and  not  half  so  mischievous  ? " 

Freelove,  insensible  as  he  was,  could  not  mistake  the  mean- 
ing of  Amanda's  words,  and  he  left  her  with  a  mortified  air, 
being,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  "completely  done  up." 

The  wild  beasts  at  the  Tower  were  the  most  popular 
sight  of  London  at  that  time,  and  hence  comes  the 
proverb  "Seeing  the  Lions."  In  the  "Lion  Tower" 
the  kings  of  England  formerly  kept  these  wild  beasts  ; 
the  first  were  three  leopards  presented  to  Henry  III.  by 
the  Emperor  Frederick,  in  allusion  to  the  royal  arms  ;  a 
bear  from  Norway  was  soon  added  ;  an  elephant  was 
procured  in  the  same  reign,  and  a  lion  in  the  time  of 
Edward  II. 

There  was  a  shocking  villain  named  Belgrave  in  the 
book  ;  and  his  advances,  combined  with  the  machina- 
Beigravethe  tions  of  Euphrasia,  who  wanted  Lord  Mortimer  for  her- 
self, drove  Amanda  from  London.  Her  father  was  at 
this  time  still  at  Carberry,  where  Amanda,  after  endless 
privations  and  dangers,  losing  her  pocket-book,  falling 
ill,  at  last  joined  him  only  to  see  him  die  in  her  arms, 

Death  of  ,        ,  '        ,  .          ... 

Fitzaian.  broken  down  by  his  misfortunes. 

She  then  changed  her  name  and  went  into  a  convent, 
to  avoid  Lord  Mortimer,  whom,  with  his  dying  breath, 
Fitzaian  had  extracted  a  promise  from  her  not  to  marry. 
She  changed  it  again  (I  think)  and  strangely  enough 
found  herself  as  a  governess  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
abbey  of  Dunreath,  where  she  was  of  course  unknown, 
unrecognized,  the  family  being  absent. 

The  abbey  was  one  of  the  most  venerable  looking  buildings 
Amanda  had  ever  beheld  ;  but  it  was  in  melancholy  grandeur 
she  now  saw  it — in  the  wane  of  its  days,  when  its  glory  was 
passed  away,  and  the  whole  pile  proclaimed  desertion  and 


Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  307 

decay.  She  saw  it  when,  to  use  the  beautiful  language  of  Hutch- 

inson,  "its  pride  was  brought  low,  when  its  magnificence  was    The  abbey  of 

sinking  in  the  dust,  when  tribulation  had  taken  the  seat  of  hos-   Dunreath. 

pitality,  and  solitude  reigned,  where  once  the  jocund  guest  had 

laughed  over  the  sparkling  bowl,  whilst  the  owls  sang  nightly 

their  strains  of  melancholy  to  the  moonshine  that  slept  upon 

its  moldering  battlements." 

"Am  I  really,"  she  asked  herself,  "in  the  seat  of  my  an- 
cestors ?  Am  I  really  in  the  habitation  where  my  mother  was 
born — where  her  irrevocable  vows  were  plighted  to  my  father  ? 
I  am  ;  and  oh  !  within  it  may  I  at  last  find  an  asylum  from  the 
vices  and  dangers  of  the  world ;  within  it  may  my  sorrowing 
spirit  lose  its  agitation,  and  subdue,  if  not  its  affections,  at 
least  its  murmurs,  at  the  disappointment  of  those  affections." 

The  care-taker,  Mrs.  Bruce,  showed  her  the  different  por- 
traits. She  suddenly  stopped  before  one.  "That,"  cried  she, 
"is  the  Marchioness  of  Roslin's,  drawn  for  her  when  Lady 
Augusta  Dunreath."  Amanda  cast  her  eyes  upon  it,  and  per- 
ceived in  the  countenance  the  same  haughtiness  as  still  dis- 
tinguished the  marchioness.  She  looked  at  the  next  panel,  and 
found  it  empty. 

"The  picture  of  Lady  Malvina  Dunreath  hung  there,"  said 
Mrs.  Bruce  ;  "but  after  her  unfortunate  marriage  it  was  taken 
down."  "And  destroyed!"  exclaimed  Amanda  mournfully.  Malvina's 

"  No  ;  but  it  was  thrown  into  the  old  chapel,  where,  with  the  P°rtrait  asain- 
rest  of  the  lumber  (the  soul  of  Amanda  was  struck  at  these 
words),  it  has  been  locked  up  for  years."  "And  is  it  impos- 
sible to  see  it?"  asked  Amanda.  "Impossible,  indeed," 
replied  Mrs.  Bruce.  "The  chapel  and  the  whole  eastern 
part  of  the  abbey  have  long  been  in  a  ruinous  situation,  on 
which  account  it  has  been  locked  up."  Amanda  could  scarcely 
conceal  the  disappointment  she  felt  at  finding  she  could  not  see 
her  mother's  picture.  She  would  have  entreated  the  chapel 
might  be  opened  for  that  purpose  had  she  not  feared  exciting 
suspicions  by  doing  so. 

This  desire  to  find  her  mother's  portrait  induced 
Amanda  to  prowl  round  the  chapel  place  ' '  with  the  rest 
of  the  lumber."  The  remarkable  result  was  that  she 


308    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

actually  discovered  her  own  grandmother,  alive,  who 
had  been  there  for  years. 

It  was  thus.  Amanda  had  discovered  a  crevice  in  the 
chapel  leading  to  a  chamber,  a  lofty  hall,  and  some 
stairs. 

Amanda's  heart  began  to  beat  with  unusual  quickness,  and 
she  thought  she  should  never  reach  the  end  of  the  gallery. 

Discovery  of  a     g^e  at  jast  came  to  a  door ;  it  was  closed,  not  fastened  ;  she 
grandmother. 

pushed  it  gently  open,  and  could  just  discern  a  spacious  room. 

This,  she  supposed,  had  been  her  mother's  dressing-room. 
The  moonbeams,  as  if  to  aid  her  wish  of  examining  it,  suddenly 
darted  through  the  casements.  Cheered  by  the  unexpected 
light,  she  advanced  into  the  room  :  at  the  upper  end  of  it  some- 
thing in  white  attracted  her  notice.  She  concluded  it  to  be 
the  portrait  of  Lady  Malvina's  mother,  which  she  had  been 
informed  hung  in  this  room.  She  went  up  to  examine  it ;  but 
her  horror  may  be  better  conceived  than  described,  when  she 
found  herself  not  by  a  picture,  but  by  the  real  form  of  a 
woman,  with  a  death-like  countenance  !  She  screamed  wildly 
at  the  terrifying  specter,  for  such  she  believed  it  to  be,  and 
quick  as  lightning  flew  from  the  room.  Again  was  the  moon 
obscured  by  a  cloud,  and  she  involved  in  utter  darkness.  She 
ran  with  such  violence  that,  as  she  reached  the  door  at  the 
end  of  the  gallery,  she  fell  against  it.  Extremely  hurt,  she 
had  not  power  to  move  for  a  few  minutes  ;  but  while  she 
involuntarily  paused,  she  heard  approaching  footsteps.  Wild 
with  terror,  she  instantly  recovered  her  faculties,  and  at- 
tempted opening  it ;  but  it  resisted  all  her  efforts.  "Protect 
me,  Heaven  !"  she  exclaimed,  and  at  the  moment  felt  an  icy 
hand  upon  hers  !  Her  senses  instantly  receded,  and  she  sunk 
to  the  floor. 

The  icy  hand  belonged  to  her  grandmother. 

This  formerly  wicked  but  now  repentant  old  lady 
The  suppressed  promptly  produced  a  will  of  the  late  Earl  of  Dunreath 
which  she  had  previously  suppressed,  leaving  all  the 
money  and  estates  to  Oscar  and  Amanda. 

Amanda   soon    made   herself   known    to   Lord    Mor- 


Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  309 

timer,  who  had  diligently  been  searching  for  her  through 
the  greater  part  of  three  volumes.  Oscar  was  rescued 
from  a  debtor's  prison,  where  he  had  unjustly  been  cast 
by  the  villain  Belgrave. 

Belgrave  had  killed  himself.      Lord  Mortimer's  father 
was  dead,  by  which  he  became  Lord  Cherbury.     Oscar,    Happy  conciu- 

J  sion. 

succeeding  to  the  family  title,  became  Lord  Dunreath. 
The  wicked  are  all  dead  and  the  living  all  happy. 
The  wedding  of  Amanda  and  Lord  Cherbury,  formerly 
Mortimer,  took  place  at  the  cottage  in  Wales  where  the 
story  begins. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


"The  Heroine, 
or  Cherubina." 


A  mock 
romance. 


IN  the  beginning  of  our  century  appeared  a  burlesque 
upon  this  class  of  romances,  which  had  a  great  success. 
It  is  in  itself  decidedly  clever,  and  it  is  quite  evident 
that  the  romance-readers  devoured  it  with  the  same  zest 
that  they  had  for  the  tales  it  parodied.  It  was  written 
by  Eaton  Stannard  Barrett,  further  described  on  his 
title-page  as  "Esquire."  Born  at  Cork  in  1786,  Bar- 
rett was  educated  at  a  school  at  Wandsworth,  and 
afterward  entered  the  Middle  Temple.  But  he  never 
seems  to  have  practiced  at  the  bar,  and  he  died  pre- 
maturely of  consumption  in  Wales.  He  made  several 
incursions  into  literature.  He  wrote  a  comedy  ;  he 
wrote  political  satires  against  the  Whigs  of  his  day, 
of  which  one,  "All  the  Talents,"  obtained  some  con- 
temporary reputation  ;  and  he  wrote  a  Popesque  eulogy 
on  "Woman,"  and  the  "mock  romance"  of  which  the 
full  title  is  "  The  Heroine,  or  Adventures  of  Cherubina." 
It  was  published  in  1813,  dedicated  to  the  Right  Hon. 
George  Canning,  and  bore  for  motto,  "  L'histoire  d'une 
femme  est  toujours  un  roman." 

A  later  American  edition  was  printed  in  Baltimore  in 
1823;  copies  of  either  are  rare  now,  and  such  as  exist 
are  still  tenderly  treasured  by  the  ladies  who  came  to 
possess  them  in  the  time  when  the  book  was  regarded 
as  a  masterpiece. 

The  heroine,  named  Cherry  Wilkinson,  is  the  only 
daughter  of  a  farmer  who,  by  "honest  and  disgusting 
industry,"  has  acquired — what  he  could  scarcely  acquire 
now — a  considerable  fortune.  Cherry's  "governess," 


Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  311 

Biddy  the  maid,  who  has  been  discharged  for  misconduct, 
and  who  has  stuffed  her  pupil  with  romance,  easily 
persuades  her  that  she  is  a  "child  of  mystery."  There-  A  child  of 
upon  Miss  Wilkinson  discovers — with  the  aid  of  an  old  n 
indenture — that  her  real  name  is,  or  should  be,  Cheru- 
bina  de  Willoughby,  and  that  she  is  called  to  the  career 
of  a  heroine.  For  this  she  has  really  certain  indispen- 
sable physical  qualifications.  Although  but  fifteen  she  is 
tall  and  "aerial,"  her  hair  is  flaxen,  her  face  Grecian, 
and  her  eyes  blue  and  sleepy.  She  has  also,  according 
to  one  of  her  admirers,  "a  voice  soft  as  the  Creolian 
lyre."  Further,  she  is  an  adept  in  most  of  the  other  Requisites  of 

J  the  true 

requisites.  She  can  ' '  blush  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers  ' ' ;  heroine. 
faint  at  pleasure  ;  has  tears,  sighs,  and  half  sighs  at 
command  ;  is  mistress  of  the  entire  gamut  of  smiles, 
from  fragmentary  to  fatal,  and  is  fully  skilled  in  the  arts 
of  gliding,  tripping,  flitting,  and  tottering,  which  last, 
being  the  "approach  movement  of  heroic  distress,"  is 
the  heroine's  ne  phis  ultra.  She  is  also  fully  posted  in 
the  obligations  of  a  heroine  to  "live  a  month  on  a 
mouthful,"  to  accomplish  long  journeys  without  fatigue, 
and  to  obtain  the  necessities  of  life  without  the  tedious 
formalities  of  payment.  Her  really  attractive  qualities 
are  excellent  health,  great  good-nature,  and  a  sense  of 
fun  which  extends  even  to  her  noticing  herself  ridiculous 
occasionally.  The  book  is  a  series  of  letters  to  Biddy  ; 
I  limit  my  extracts  to  the  denouement. 

Oh  ye,  whoever  ye  are,  whom  chance  or  misfortune  may  here- 
after conduct  to  this  spot,  to  you  I  speak,  to  you  reveal  the 
story  of  my  wrongs,  and  ask  you  to  revenge  them.  Vain  hope  !  tlfl'last  " 
yet  it  imparts  some  comfort  to  believe  that  what  I  now  write  may 
one  day  meet  the  eye  of  a  fellow-creature,  that  the  words  which 
tell  my  sufferings  may  one  day  draw  pity  from  the  feeling  heart. 

Know,  then,  that  on  the  fatal  day  which  saw  me  driven  from 
my  castle,  four  men  in  black  visors  entered  the  cottage  where  I 


312    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Tragic 
happenings. 


had  taken  shelter,  and  forced  me  and  -my  minstrel  into  a  car- 
riage. We  traveled  miles  in  silence.  At  length  they  stopped, 
cast  a  cloak  over  my  face,  and  carried  me  along  winding  pas- 
sages, and  up  and  down  flights  of  steps.  They  then  took  off  the 
cloak,  and  I  found  myself  in  an  antique  and  Gothic  apartment! 
My  conductors  laid  down  a  lamp  and  disappeared.  I  heard  the 
door  barred  upon  me.  O  sound  of  despair  !  O  moment  of  un- 
utterable anguish  !  Shut  out  from  day,  from  friends,  from  life 
• — in  the  prime  of  my  years,  in  the  height  of  my  transgressions — 
I  sink  under  the — 


Almost  an  hour  has  now  passed  in  solitude  and  silence.  Why 
am  I  brought  hither  ?  Why  confined  thus  rigorously  ?  O  dire 
extremity !  O  state  of  living  death  !  Is  this  a  vision  ?  Are 
these  things  real?  Alas,  I  am  bewildered. 


An  ancient 
chamber. 


Such,  Biddy,  was  the  manuscript  that  I  scribbled  last  night 
after  the  mysterious  event  which  it  relates.  You  shall  now 
hear  what  has  occurred  since. 

According  to  common  usage,  I  first  took  the  lamp  and  began 
examining  the  chamber.  On  one  wall  hung  historical  arras, 
worked  in  colorless  and  rotten  worsted,  and  depicting  scenes 
from  the  Provencal  romances  ;  the  deeds  of  Charlemagne  and 
his  twelve  peers  ;  the  crusaders,  troubadours,  and  Saracens  ; 
and  the  necromantic  feats  of  the  magician  Jurl.  The  remaining 
walls  were  wainscoted  with  black  larch  wood  ;  and  over  the 
painted  and  escutcheoned  windows  hung  iron  visors,  tattered 
pennons,  and  broken  shields.  An  antique  bed  of  decayed  dam- 
ask stood  in  a  corner  ;  and  a  few  moth-eaten  chairs,  tissued  and 
fringed  with  threads  of  tarnished  gold,  were  round  the  room. 
At  the  further  end  a  picture  of  a  warrior  on  horseback,  darting 
his  spear  into  a  prostrate  soldier,  was  enclosed  in  a  frame  of 
uncommon  magnitude  that  reached  down  to  the  ground.  An 
old  harp  which  occupied  one  corner  proved  imprisonment,  and 
some  clots  of  blood  upon  the  floor  proved  murder. 

I  gazed  with  delight  at  this  admirable  apartment ;  it  was  a 
perfect  treasure  ;  nothing  could  exceed  it ;  all  was  in  the  best 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  313 

style  of  horror,  and  now  for  the  first  time  I  felt  the  full  and 
unqualified  consciousness  of  being  as  real  a  heroine  as  ever 
existed. 

An  ancient  waiting  woman  interrupted  her  delight, 
to  whom  Cherubina  began  talking  in  very  old  English. 

"  And  pray,  good  woman,  who  is  your  lord  ? " 
"  Good  woman  ! "  cries  she  bridling,  "no  more  good  woman 
than  yourself — Dame  Ursaline,  if  you  please." 

She  elicited  from  the  old  woman  that  she  was  in  the  Baron 
keeping  of  one  Baron  Hildebrand,  and  might  expect  a  brand- 
visit  from  him. 

At  last  I  heard  a  heavy  tread  along  the  corridor  ;  the  door 
was  unbarred,  and  a  huge  but  majestic  figure  strode  into  the 
chamber.  The  black  plume  towering  in  his  cap,  the  armorial 
coat,  Persian  sash,  and  Spanish  cloak,  all  set  off  with  the  most 
muscular  frown  imaginable,  made  him  look  truly  tremendous. 

"Lady!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  which  vibrated  through  my 
brain,  "I  am  the  Baron  Hildebrand,  that  celebrated  ruffian. 
My  plans  are  terrible  and  unsearchable.  Hear  me  !  " 

He  then  explained  his  plans.  He  had  seized  Cheru- 
bina in  order  to  force  her  to  marry  the  Lord  Mont- 
morenci,  because  he  wished  to  prevent  this  gentleman 
from  marrying  his  daughter,  the  Lady  Sympathina. 
Cherubina  was  acquainted  with  Montmorenci,  in  fact  he 
had  been  doing  service  as  her  chief  suitor  during  the 
book. 

"In  two  days  therefore,  madam,"  he  concluded,  "you  will 
give  him  your  hand  or  suffer  imprisonment  for  life."  obstinacy  of 

"My  lord,  I  will  not  wed  Montmorenci,"  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  Cherubina. 
the  sweetest  obstinacy. 

He  started  from  his  seat,  and  began  to  pace  the  chamber 
with  colossal  strides.  Conceive  the  scene :  the  tall  figure  of 
Hildebrand  passing  along  ;  his  folded  arms  ;  the  hideous  deso- 
lation of  the  room,  and  my  shrinking  figure.  It  was  fine,  very 
fine.  It  resembled  a  pandemonium  where  a  fiend  was  tor- 
menting an  angel  of  light.  Yet  insult  and  oppression  had  but 


314    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 


Celebrated 
personages. 


Old  acquaint- 
ances. 


added  to  his  charms  ;  as  the  rose  throws  forth  fresh  fragrance 
by  being  mutilated.     He  rushed  out  of  the  chamber. 

Nothing  in  nature  could  be  better  than  my  conduct  on  this 
occasion.  I  was  delighted  with  it,  and  with  the  castle,  with 
everything.  I  therefore  knelt  and  chanted  a  vesper  hymn,  so 
soft  and  solemn  ;  while  my  eyes  like  a  Magdelen's  were  cast  to 
the  planets. 

Shortly  after,  our  heroine  received  information  of  a 
visit  she  might  expect  from  distinguished  individuals 
who  were  coming  to  call. 

And  now  the  promised  hour  was  approaching  when  I  should 
see  the  recorded  personages  of  romance.  I  therefore  heroin- 
ized  myself  as  much  as  possible,  and  elegantly  leaning  on  the 
harp  awaited  their  arrival.  . 

Meanwhile  I  figured  them,  adorned  with  all  the  venerable 
loveliness  of  a  virtuous  old  age,  even  in  grayness  engaging, 
even  in  wrinkles  interesting.  Hand  in  hand  they  walk  down 
the  gentle  slope  of  life,  and  often  pause  to  look  back  upon  the 
scenes  which  they  have  quitted.  The  happy  vale  of  their 
childhood,  the  turreted  castle,  the  cloistered  monastery.  I 
anticipated  how  this  interview  with  them  would  improve  me  in 
my  profession.  No  longer  drawing  from  books  alone,  I  might 
now  copy  from  the  original.  The  hand  of  a  master  would 
guide  mine,  and  I  should  quaff  primeval  waters  from  the 
source  itself. 

As  I  sate  thus  rapt,  I  heard  steps  in  the  passage  ;  the  bolts 
were  undrawn,  and  Sympathina,  at  the  head  of  the  company, 
entered  and  announced  their  names. 

Sir  Charles  Grandison  came  forward  the  first.  He  was  an 
emaciated  old  oddity,  and  wore  flannels  and  a  flowing  wig. 

Lady  Grandison  leaned  on  his  arm,  bursting  with  fat  and 
laughter,  so  unlike  what  I  had  conceived  of  Harriet  Byron 
that  I  turned  from  her  quite  disgusted. 

Mortimer  Delville  came  next,  and  my  disappointment  at  find- 
ing him  a  plain,  sturdy,  hard-featured  fellow  was  soon  absorbed 
in  my  still  greater  regret  at  seeing  his  Cecilia — once  the  blue- 
eyed,  sun-tressed  Cecilia  'now  flaunting  in  all  the  reverend 
graces  of  a  painted  grandmother. 

These  are  characters  in  Miss  Burney's  second  novel. 


Mrs.   Raddiffe  and  her  Followers.  315 

After  them  advanced  Lord  Mortimer  and  his  Amanda  ;  but 
he  had  fallen  into  flesh  ;  and  she  with  a  face  like  scorched 
parchment  appeared  broken-hearted.  I  was  too  much  shocked 
and  astonished  to  speak  ;  but  Sir  Charles,  bowing  over  my 
hand — his  old  custom,  you  know — thus  broke  silence  : 

"Your  ladyship  may  recollect  that  I  have  always  been  cele- 
brated for  giving  advice — Marry  Montmorenci  ;  trust  me,  love   s.ad  revela- 
before  marriage  is  the  surest  preventive  of  love  after  it.    I  know 
most  of  these  heroes  and  heroines  myself,  and  I  know  that 
nothing  can  equal  their  misery." 

"  Do  you  know  Lord  Orville  and  his  Evelina?"  said  I,  "and 
are  they  not  happy?  Pray,"  said  I,  addressing  Amanda,  "  are 
not  your  brother  Oscar  and  his  Adela  happy  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no  !  "  cried  she.  "  Oscar  became  infatuated  with  the 
charms  of  Evelina's  old  grandmother,  Madame  Duval,  so  poor 
Adela  left  him." 

"How  shocking!"  said  I.  "But  Pamela — the  virtuous 
Pamela?"  [Richardson's  first  heroine.] 

"Made  somewhat  a  better  choice,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "for 
she  ran  off  with  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia,  when  he  re- 
turned to  the  happy  valley." 

There  is  more  of  this  sort.     The  same  idea  has  been 
more  cleverly  carried  out  in  Miss  Porter's  little  play,    pia\s. 
"Place   aux   Dames,"   in  which   the   wives  of   Shake- 
speare's  heroes    condole   with    each    other    over   their 
matrimonial  infelicities. 

Cherubina,  by  her  natural  ready  wit,  soon  escaped 
from  the  Gothic  chamber,  but  dire  disillusion  awaited 
her.  There  was  nothing  Gothic  about  the  castle, 
which  was  no  castle,  but  a  modern  country-house,  of  Jastieastle  n° 
which  one  apartment  had  been  fitted  up  with  old- 
fashioned  furniture. 

She  came  to  a  room  where,  concealed  by  a  curtain, 
she  could  see  all  her  late  guests  feasting  round  a  supper- 
table,  having  laid  off  all  disguise.  They  were  engaged 
in  laughing  at  her  credulity,  amongst  them  her  former 
admirer  Montmorenci,  whose  real  name  was  Abraham 


3 1 6    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Grundy,  the  instigator  of  the  whole  affair ;  another 
boasted  of  having  enacted  the  part  at  a  masquerade  in 
the  beginning  of  the  book  of  old  Whylome  Eftsoones, 
in  order  to  make  her  believe  herself,  Cherry  Wilkinson, 
to  be  Lady  Cherubina  de  Willoughby. 

Indignant,  she  sprang  boldly  forward  amongst  them 

all,  to  be  seized  fast  by  one  of  them,  when  suddenly  he 

Rescue  by          was  torn  from  her  by  Stuart,  her  honorable  and  sincere 

Stuart.  J 

lover,  who,  seeing  her  good  qualities,  had  been  en- 
deavoring, from  the  beginning,  to  emancipate  her  from 
her  foolish  ones,  like  Glanville  in  "The  Female 
Quixote,"  who  is  equally  loyal  to  Arabella. 

The  book  soon  ends,  for  Cherry  Wilkinson,  who  is  a 
breezy,  wholesome  sort  of  a  girl,  readily  shakes  off  her 
follies  and  becomes  repentant  and  reasonable. 

Stuart  put  "  Don  Quixote"  into  her  hands  and  "by 
Wholesome  his  lively  advice  and  witty  reasoning,"  joined  to  her 

ending. 

natural  good  sense,  perfected  her  mental  reformation. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Now,  Jane  Austen,  in  1798,  wrote  her  "Northanger 
Abbey,"  which  is  also  a  burlesque  upon  the  romantic 
novels  ;  but  she  evidently  had  no  knowledge  of  Cheru-  Jane  Austen.s 
bina  until  much  later.  "Northanger  Abbey"  was  sold  burl«que. 
in  1803,  to  a  publisher  in  Bath,  for  ten  pounds,  but  it 
found  so  little  favor  in  his  eyes  that  he  did  not  venture 
to  publish  it,  and  it  seems  to  have  remained  unnoticed 
in  his  drawer  until  after  the  appearance  of  ' '  Pride 
and  Prejudice,"  "Mansfield  Park,"  and  "Emma." 
Her  reputation  established,  ' '  Northanger  Abbey ' '  was 
allowed  to  come  forth  in  1818. 

Meanwhile,  while  it  was  still  shut  up  in  the  drawer, 
but  not  until  1814,  Miss  Austen  came  upon  the  work  of 
Eaton  Stannard  Barrett,  Esq.  She  writes  her  sister 

from  London  : 

March  2d. 

I  finished  "The  Heroine"  last  night,  and  was  very  much 
amused  by  it.  It  diverted  me  exceedingly. 

And  in  the  same  letter,  farther  on  : 

This  evening  we  have  drank  tea,  and  I  have  torn  through 
the  third  volume  of  "The  Heroine."  I  do  not  think  it  falls 
off.  It  is  a  delightful  burlesque,  particularly  on  the  Radcliffe 
style. 

Jane  Austen  was  born  in  1775,  so  she  was  but  twenty- 
three  when  she  wrote  "  Northanger  Abbey,"  evidently 
inspired  by  the  foolishness  she  perceived  in  the  current  Austen, 
novels  of  her  time. 

It  is  a  good  novel  in  itself,  apart  from  the  satire  on 
the  older  books,  although  not  equal  to  her  maturer 
works,  which  I  may  not  touch,  as  they  belong  to  this 


318    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

century  ;  while  I  may  venture  on  the  extracts  that  bear 
upon  the  old  novels  we  have  been  reading  about. 

The  adventures  of  her  heroine,   Catherine  Morland, 
Adventures  of     took  place  in  Bath,  rather  later  than  our  other  friends 

another 

heroine.  report. 

They  made  their  appearance  in  the  lower  rooms  ;  and  the 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies  introduced  to  her  a  very  gentleman- 
like young  man  as  a  partner  ;  his  name  was  Tilney. 

Catherine  also  made  the  acquaintance  of  Isabella,  and 
this  conversation  occurred  between  them  in  the  pump- 
room,  one  morning. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long  ?  " 

"Oh  !  these  ten  ages  at  least.  I  am  sure  I  have  been  here 
this  half-hour.  But  now  let  us  go  and  sit  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  and  enjoy  ourselves.  I  have  a  hundred  things 
to  say  to  you.  In  the  first  place,  I  was  so  afraid  it  would  rain 
this  morning  just  as  I  wanted  to  set  off;  it  looked  very  showery, 
and  that  would  have  thrown  me  into  agonies  !  Do  you  know,  I 
saw  the  prettiest  hat  you  can  imagine  in  a  shop-window  in 
Milsom  Street  just  now  ;  very  like  yours,  only  wiih  coquelicot 
ribbands  instead  of  green  ;  I  quite  longed  for  it.  But,  my 
dearest  Catherine,  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all 
this  morning?  Have  you  gone  on  with  '  Udolpho  '  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  been  reading  it  ever  since  I  woke  ;  and  I  am 
got  to  the  black  veil." 

"Are  you,   indeed?     How  delightful!     Oh!     I   would  not 

Talk  about  the     te]|  you  wnat  js  behind  the  black  veil  for  the  world  !     Are  you 
romances. 

not  wild  to  know? 

"  Oh  !  yes,  quite  ;  what  can  it  be?  But  do  not  tell. me  ;  I 
would  not  be  told  upon  any  account.  I  know  it  must  be  a 
skeleton  ;  I  am  sure  it  is  Laurentina's  skeleton.  Oh  !  I  am 
delighted  with  the  book  !  I  should  like  to  spend  my  whole  life 
in  reading  it,  I  assure  you  ;  if  it  had  not  been  to  meet  you,  I 
would  not  have  come  away  from  it  for  all  the  world." 

"  Dear  creature  !  how  much  I  am  obliged  to  you  ;  and  when 
you  have  finished  '  Udolpho,'  we  will  read  "The  Italian"  to- 
gether ;  and  I  have  made  out  a  list  of  ten  or  twelve  more  of 
the  same  kind  for  you." 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  319 

Mr.  Tilney  proved  a  very  agreeable  acquaintance,  a 
sensible,  well-bred  young  gentleman  fitting  for  the  acq 
church,  though  not  at  all  in  the  line  of  the  Mortimers 
and  Orvilles.  His  sister  was  charming  and  his  father  was 
General  Tilney,  and  they  lived  at  Northanger  Abbey,  a 
real  abbey,  like  those  of  the  romances  she  adored  ; 
whither,  to  her  rapture,  she  was  invited  to  accompany 
them,  upon  a  visit,  when  they  all  were  ready  to  leave 
Bath.  The  journey  was  made  in  carriages,  and  for  the 
greater  part  of  it  Mr.  Tilney  drove  Catherine  in  his 
open  carriage. 

As  they  drew  near  the  end  of  their  journey,  her  impatience 
for  a  sight  of  the  abbey,  for  some  time  suspended  by  his  con- 
versation on  subjects  very  different,  returned  in  full  force,  and 
every  bend  in  the  road  was  expected,  with  solemn  awe,  to 
afford  a  glimpse  of  its  massy  walls  of  gray  stone,  rising  amidst 
a  grove  of  ancient  oaks,  with  the  last  beams  of  the  sun  play- 
ing in  beautiful  splendor  on  its  high  Gothic  windows.  But  so 
low  did  the  building  stand  that  she  found  herself  passing 
through  the  great  gates  of  the  lodge,  into  the  very  grounds  of 
Northanger,  without  having  discerned  even  an  antique  chim- 
ney. 

On  the  whole,   the  abbey  was  disappointing   from  a    The  abbey  dis- 
romantic  point  of  view,  for  modern   ease  and  comfort  aPP°intm£- 
prevailed,    good  furniture,    heavy    carpets,    and   ample 
service.      Still,  as  she  went  up  to  bed  : 

The  night  was  stormy  ;  the  wind  had  been  rising  at  intervals 
the  whole  afternoon  ;  and  by  the  time  the  party  broke  up  it 
blew  and  rained  violently.  Catherine,  as  she  crossed  the  hall, 
listened  to  the  tempest  with  sensations  of  awe  ;  and  when  she 
heard  it  rage  round  a  corner  of  the  ancient  building,  and  close 
with  sudden  fury  a  distant  door,  felt  for  the  first  time  that  she 
was  really  in  an  abbey.  Yes,  these  were  characteristic  sounds  ; 
they  brought  to  her  recollection  a  countless  variety  of  dreadful 
situations  and  horrid  scenes,  which  such  buildings  had  wit- 
nessed, and  such  storms  ushered  in  ;  and  most  heartily  did  she 


320    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Agreeably  rejoice  in  the  happier  circumstances  attending  her  entrance 

dismal.  within  walls  so  solemn  ! 

On  entering  her  room,  her  spirits  were  immediately 
assisted  by  the  cheerful  blaze  of  a  wood  fire. 

She  looked  round  the  room.  The  window  curtains  seemed 
in  motion.  It  could  be  nothing  but  the  violence  of  the  wind 
penetrating  through  the  divisions  of  the  shutters  ;  and  she 
stepped  boldly  forward,  carelessly  humming  a  tune,  to  assure 
herself  of  its  being  so,  peeped  courageously  behind  each 
curtain,  saw  nothing  on  either  low  window-seat  to  scare  her, 
and  on  placing  a  hand  against  the  shutter,  felt  the  strongest 
conviction  of  the  wind's  force.  A  glance  at  the  old  chest,  as 

An  old  chest.  she  turned  away  from  this  examination,  was  not  without  its 
use  ;  she  scorned  the  causeless  fears  of  an  idle  fancy,  and 
began  with  a  most  happy  indifference  to  prepare  herself  for 
bed.  "She  should  take  her  time;  she  should  not  hurry  her- 
self ;  she  did  not  care  if  she  were  the  last  person  up  in  the 
house.  But  she  would  not  make  up  her  fire  ;  that  would  seem 
cowardly,  as  if  she  wished  for  the  protection  of  light  after  she 
were  in  bed."  The  fire,  therefore,  died  away  ;  and  Catherine, 
having  spent  the  best  part  of  an  hour  in  her  arrangements,  was 
beginning  to  think  of  stepping  into  bed,  when,  on  giving  a 
parting  glance  round  the  room,  she  was  struck  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  high,  old-fashioned  black  cabinet,  which,  though  in  a 
situation  conspicuous  enough,  had  never  caught  her  notice 
before.  She  took  her  candle  and  looked  closely  at  the  cabi- 
net. It  was  not  absolutely  ebony  and  gold  ;  but  it  was  Japan, 
black  and  yellow  Japan  of  the  handsomest  kind  ;  and  as  she 
held  her  candle  the  yellow  had  very  much  the  effect  of  gold. 

The  key  was  in  the  door,  and  she  had  a  strange  fancy  to  look 
into  it ;  without  the  smallest  expectation  of  finding  anything, 
she  could  not  sleep  till  she  had  examined  it.  So,  placing  the 
candle  with  great  caution  on  a  chair,  she  seized  the  key  with  a 
very  tremulous  hand,  and  tried  to  turn  it ;  but  it  resisted  her 
utmost  strength.  Alarmed,  but  not  discouraged,  she  tried  it 
another  way  ;  a  bolt  flew,  and  she  believed  herself  successful ; 
but  how  strangely  mysterious  !  the  door  was  still  immovable. 
At  length  it  did  open  ;  and  not  vain,  as  hitherto,  was  her 

A  roll  of  paper,    search  ;  her  quick  eyes  directly  fell  on  a  roll  of  paper  pushed 


Mrs.  Raddiffe  and  her  Followers.  321 

back  into  the  further  part  of  the  cavity,  apparently  for  conceal- 
ment, and  her  feelings  at  that  moment  were  indescribable. 
Her  heart  fluttered,  her  knees  trembled,  and  her  cheeks  grew 
pale.  She  seized,  with  an  unsteady  hand,  the  precious  manu- 
script, for  half  a  glance  sufficed  to  ascertain  written  characters  ; 
and  resolved  instantly  to  peruse  every  line  before  she  at- 
tempted to  rest. 

The  dimness  of  the  light  her  candle  emitted  made  her  turn 
to  it  with  alarm  ;  but  there  was  no  danger  of  its  sudden 
extinction,  it  had  yet  some  hours  to  burn  ;  and  that  she  might 
not  have  any  greater  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the  writing 
than  what  its  ancient  date  might  occasion  she  hastily  snuffed  it. 
Alas  !  it  was  snuffed  and  extinguished  in  one.  A  lamp  could 
not  have  expired  with  more  awful  effect.  Catherine,  for  a  few 
moments,  was  motionless  with  horror.  It  was  done  com- 
pletely ;  not  a  remnant  of  light  in  the  wick  could  give  hope  to 
the  rekindling  breath.  Darkness  impenetrable  and  immovable 
filled  the  room.  A  violent  gust  of  wind,  rising  with  sudden  A  gust  of  wind, 
fury,  added  fresh  horror  to  the  moment.  Catherine  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  In  the  pause  which  succeeded,  a  sound 
like  receding  footsteps  and  the  closing  of  a  distant  door  struck 
on  her  affrighted  ear.  Human  nature  could  support  no  more. 
A  cold  sweat  stood  on  her  forehead,  the  manuscript  fell  from 
her  hand,  and  groping  her  way  to  the  bed,  she  jumped  hastily 
in,  and  sought  some  suspension  of  agony  by  creeping  far 
underneath  the  clothes.  To  close  her  eyes  in  sleep  that  night 
she  felt  must  be  entirely  out  of  the  question.  With  a  curiosity 
so  justly  awakened,  and  feelings  in  every  way  so  agitated, 
repose  must  be  absolutely  impossible.  The  storm,  too, 
abroad  so  dreadful !  She  had  not  been  used  to  feel  alarm  from 
wind,  but  now  every  blast  seemed  fraught  with  awful  intelli- 
gence. The  manuscript  so  wonderfully  found,  so  wonderfully 
accomplishing  the  morning's  prediction,  how  was  it  to  be 
accounted  for  ?  What  could  it  contain  ?  to  whom  could  it 
relate  ?  by  what  means  could  it  have  been  so  long  concealed  ? 

Hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  the  wearied  Gather-  AI1  the  ciocks 

ine  had  heard  three  proclaimed  by  all  the  clocks  in  the  E^cfaim'the 

house  before  the  tempest  subsided,  or  she  unknowingly  h 
fell  fast  asleep. 


322    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

The  housemaid's  folding  back  her  window-shutters  at  eight 
o'clock  the  next  day  was  the  sound  which  first  roused  Cather- 
ine ;  and  she  opened  her  eyes,  wondering  that  they  could  ever 
have  been  closed  on  objects  of  cheerfulness  ;  her  fire  was 
already  burning,  and  a  bright  morning  had  succeeded  the  tem- 
pest of  the  night.  Instantaneously  with  the  consciousness  of 
existence  returned  her  recollection  of  the  manuscript ;  and 
springing  from  her  bed  in  the  very  moment  of  the  maid's  going 
away,  she  eagerly  collected  every  scattered  sheet  which  had 
burst  from  the  roll  on  its  falling  to  the  ground,  and  flew  back 
to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  their  perusal  on  her  pillow.  She  now 
plainly  saw  that  she  must  not  expect  a  manuscript  of  equal 
length  with  the  generality  of  what  she  had  shuddered  over  in 
books ;  for  the  roll,  seeming  to  consist  entirely  of  small 
disjointed  sheets,  was  altogether  but  of  trifling  size,  and  much 
less  than  she  had  supposed  it  to  be  at  first. 

Her  greedy  eye  glanced  rapidly  over  a  page.  She  started  at 
its  import.  Could  it  be  possible,  or  did  not  her  senses  play 
Disillusion.  her  false  ?  An  inventory  of  linen,  in  coarse  and  modern  char- 
acters, seemed  all  that  was  before  her  !  If  the  evidence  of 
sight  might  be  trusted,  she  held  a  washing-bill  in  her  hand. 
She  seized  another  sheet,  and  saw  the  -same  articles  with  little 
variation  ;  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  a  fifth,  presented  nothing  new. 
Shirts,  stockings,  cravats,  and  waistcoats,  faced  her  in  each. 
Two  others,  penned  by  the  same  hand,  marked  an  expenditure 
scarcely  more  interesting.  Such  was  the  collection  of  papers 
(left,  perhaps,  as  she  could  then  suppose,  by  the  negligence  of 
a  servant,  in  the  place  whence  she  had  taken  them)  which  had 
filled  her  with  expectation  and  alarm,  and  had  robbed  her  of 
half  her  night's  rest !  She  felt  humbled  to  the  dust.  Could 
not  the  adventure  of  the  chest  have  taught  her  wisdom  ?  A 
corner  of  it  catching  her  eye  as  she  lay  seemed  to  rise  up  in 
judgment  against  her.  Nothing  could  now  be  clearer  than  the 
absurdity  of  her  recent  fancies.  To  suppose  that  a  manuscript 
of  many  generations  back  could  have  remained  undiscovered 
in  a  room  such  as  that,  so  modern,  so  habitable,  or  that  she 
should  be  the  first  to  possess  the  skill  of  unlocking  a  cabinet 
the  key  of  which  was  open  to  all. 

Ashamed  but  Catherine   was    heartily   ashamed    already,    but    not 

not  cured.  quite    cured,   until   she  was  one  day  caught  beyond  a 


Mrs.   Radcliffe  and  her  Followers.  323 

gallery  which  she  was  exploring  with  the  intention  of 
verifying  a  shocking  plot  of  mystery,  and  even  murder, 
which  she  had  herself  conjured  up. 

At  that  instant  a  door  underneath  was  hastily  opened,  some 
one  seemed  with  swift  steps  to  ascend  the  stairs,  by  the  head 
of  which  she  had  yet  to  pass  before  she  could  gain  the  gallery. 
She  had  no  power  to  move.    With  a  feeling  of  terror  not 
very  definable  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  staircase,  and  in  a  few   Foolish 
moments  it  gave  Henry  to  her  view.     "  Mr.  Tilney  !  "  she  ex-   terror, 
claimed;  in  a  voice  of  more  than  common  astonishment.     He 
looked  astonished  too.     "Good  God!"   she  continued,   not 
attending  to  his  address,  "how  came  you  here?    How  came 
you  up  that  staircase  ? " 

"  How  came  I  up  that  staircase!"  he  replied,  greatly  sur- 
prised. "Because  it  is  my  nearest  way  from  the  stable-yard 
to  my  own  chamber  ;  and  why  should  I  not  come  up  it  ?  " 

Catherine  recollected  herself,  blushed  deeply,  and  could  say 
no  more.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  in  her  countenance  for 
that  explanation  which  her  lips  did  not  afford.  She  moved  on 
toward  the  gallery.  "  And  may  I  not,  in  my  turn,"  said  he,  as 
he  pushed  back  the  folding  doors,  "ask  how  came  you  here? 
This  passage  is  at  least  as  extraordinary  a  road  from  the 
breakfast-parlor  to  your  apartment  as  that  staircase  can  be 
from  the  stables  to  mine." 

The  encounter  led  to  a  serious  explanation  and  a 
pretty  severe  lesson  from  the  young  man  to  the  lady, 
which  was  sufficient  to  bring  her  wholly  to  her  senses. 
Like  all  the  heroines,  she  had  succeeded  in  winning  the 
affection  and  regard  of  Henry  Tilney  in  spite  of  her 
romantic  folly.  .  He  said  amongst  other  things,  after 
she  had  confessed  the  silly  romance  she  had  imagined 
concerning  his  relations  : 

"Remember  the  country  and  the  age  in  which  we  live. 
Remember  that  we  are  English  :  that  we  are  Christians.  Con- 
sult your  own  understanding,  your  own  sense  of  the  probable, 
your  own  observation  of  what  is  passing  around  you.  Does 
our  education  prepare  us  for  such  atrocities?  Do  our  laws 


324    Men  and  Manners  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

connive  at  them  ?  Could  they  be  perpetrated  without  being 
known  in  a  country  like  this,  where  social  and  literary  inter- 
course is  on  such  a  footing ;  where  every-  man  is  surrounded 
by  a  neighborhood  of  voluntary  spies ;  and  where  roads  and 
newspapers  lay  everything  open  ?  Dearest  Miss  Morland,  what 
ideas  have  you  been  admitting  ?  " 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  gallery  and  with  tears  of 
shame  she  ran  off  to  her  own  room.  The  visions  of  romance 
were  over.  Catherine  was  completely  awakened. 

Strange  to  say,   Henry  Tilney  continued  his  atten- 
tions.    Some  difficulties  arose  to  separate  the  lovers, 
One  more          but  it  all  turned  out  well   in  the  end,   and  Catherine 

happy  ending.  ' 

Morland  became  the  happy  Mrs.  Henry  Tilney. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  continue  in  the  path  which 
Miss  Austen  has  opened,  with  her  descriptions  of  home 
life  and  the  manners  of  the  early  nineteenth  century. 
But  this  is  to  tread  on  forbidden  ground.  My  task  is 
limited.  We  have  been  busy  with  the  characters  and 
figures  of  an  earlier  age,  and  now  like  ghosts  we  must 
disappear  ;  for  the  dawn  of  a  new  day  is  beginning  to 
show  itself.  Jane  Austen's  star  we  have  already  per- 
ceived, Maria  Edgeworth's  is  not  far  off,  and  the  great 
planet  Walter  Scott  will  soon  with  its  broad  glow 
extinguish  smaller  lights. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

Mrs.  Barbauld's  British  Novelists,  Vols.  31,  32,  33. 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho. 

Forsyth's  Novels  and  Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
Memoir  of  Jane  Austen.    ByJ.  E.Leigh.    (Bentley,  London, 

1879.) 


INDEX. 


Addison  and  Gay,  75. 

Addison,  Joseph,  birth  and  parentage, 
77  ;  education  and  travels,  77  ;  re- 
turn to  England,  77;  political  offices, 
78 ;  marriage,  78 ;  characteristics, 
78;  mode  of  life,  78;  human  sym- 
pathies, 79;  "Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley,"  79,  86  ;  Vauxhall  Gardens,  85  ; 
Spectator,  87. 

"Amelia,"  149. 

Austen,  Jane,  317;  "Northanger 
Abbey,"  318. 

Barbauld,  Mrs.,  44. 

Barrett,  Eaton  Stannard,  310; 
''  Cherubina,"  310. 

Bath,  Baedeker's  description,  271  ; 
Goldsmith's,  274;  amusements,  274  ; 
balls,  275 ;  baths  and  waters,  278 ; 
descriptions  in  "  Female  Quixote," 
282  ;  in  "  Pompey  the  Little,"  285  ; 
in  "Humphrey  Clinker,"  287;  in 
''  Evelina,"  290. 

Beau  Nash  and  Bath,  271. 

"  Beggar's  Opera,"  105. 

Burke,  Edward,  194. 

Burnet,  Bishop,  u. 

Burney,  Dr.  and  Miss,  223. 

Burney,  Fanny,  45;   birth  and   child- 


"  Evelina,"  233. 

Evelina  and  Dr.  Johnson,  233. 

Extracts. — Addison  :  "  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley,  79,  85,  86  ;  Spectator,  87- 
104.  Austen:  "  Northanger  Abbey," 
318-324.  Barrett:  "Cherubina," 
310-316.  Burney:  "Evelina,"  233- 
260.  Coventry:  "  P  o  m  p  e  y  the 
Little,"  285.  Fielding:  "Tom 
Jones,"  150-179.  Gay:  Poem  to 
Pope,  35;  "Trivia,"  105-108. 
Gray:  "The  Long  Story,"  228; 
"  Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Cat," 
231.  Goldsmith:  "Chinese  Let- 
ters," 187-191  ;  "Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,"  197-201.  Lennox:  "Female 
Quixote,"  48-72,  282.  Montague : 
Letters,  16,36,38, 115, 116  ;  Parody  on 
"  The  Dunciad,"  37.  Pope:  "Rape 
of  the  Lock,"  27-33.  Radcliffe: 
"Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  294-300; 
"  Children  of  the  Abbey,"  301-309. 
Richardson:  "Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son,"  117-146.  Smollett:  "  Hum- 
phrey Clinker,"  287.  Walpole  :  Let- 
ters, 208-225;  "Castle  of  Otranto," 

hood,  261  ;  society,  262;  "Evelina,"'     Fielding,  Henry,  147  ;  early  struggles, 


263;    acquaintance  with    Dr.  John- 
son and  Mrs.  Thrale,  263. 

"  Castle  of  Otranto,"  207,  215,  231 

Charlotte,  Queen,  212,  223. 

"  Cherubina,"  310. 

"  Children  of  the  Abbey,"  301. 

"  Chinese  Letters,"  187. 

"  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  113. 

Congreve,  36. 

Devil's  Tavern,  44. 

Dresden,  21. 

Earthquake  in  London,  209. 


147  ;  marriage,  148  ;  "Joseph  An- 
drews," 148  ;  "Jonathan  Wild,"  149  ; 
"Tom  Jones,"  149-150;  "Amelia," 
149  ;  death,  149. 

Free/wider,  77. 

Garrick,  185,  234;  Garrick  and  Gold- 
smith, 220. 

Gay,  John,  34;  poem  to  Pope,  35; 
account  of,  105. 

George  I.,  22. 

George  II..  22. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  birth  and  parent- 


325 


326 


Index. 


age,  180 ;  life  in  London,  183 ;  inter- 
course with  Garrick,  185;  with 
Smollett,  185;  "Chinese  Letters," 
187;  Dr.  Johnson,  193;  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds, 193;  Burke,  194;  "Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  195,  197;  "Traveller," 
195 ;  death,  202. 

Gray,  Thomas,  226;  friendship  with 
Lady  Cobham,  227;  "Elegy,"  226; 
"  Long  Story,"  228. 

Guardian,  77. 

Herrenhausen,  23. 

Highmore,  Miss,  109. 

"  Humphrey  Clinker,"  287. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  193,  194,  265; 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Thrale, 
268 ;  personal  habits,  269 ;  style, 
270. 

"Jonathan  Wild,"  149. 

"Joseph  Andrews,"  148. 

Lennox,  Charlotte,  44;  works,  44; 
birth,  44;  death,  45;  comments  of 
Lady  Mary  and  Dr.  Johnson,  45  ; 
"Female  Quixote,"  45,  48;  com- 
ments of  Mrs.  Barbauld,  46. 

Letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tague, 16,  36,  38. 

Letters  of  Horace  Walpole,  208. 

"  Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Cat,"  231. 

"  Long  Story,"  228. 

Marylebone  Garden,  244. 

Mitre  Tavern,  194. 

Montague,  Edward  Wortley,  9,  14. 

Montague,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  birth, 
9;  parentage  and  marriage,  9,  18  ; 
personal  characteristics,  9  ;  Kit-cat 
Club,  10 ;  education,  10;  early  life, 
n,  12,  13;  travels  in  Germany,  19; 
letters,  16,  36,  38;  travels  in  the 
East,  24 ;  return  to  Europe,  24 ; 
Pope,  25,  36,  37  ;  parody  on  "  The 
Dunciad,"  37  ;  separation  from  hus- 
band and  life  in  Europe,  42  ;  return 
to  England,  42  ;  death,  43. 

Montague,  Sidney,  13. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  her  Followers,  292. 

"  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  294. 

Nash,  Beau,  family,  272;  life  of  gai- 
ety in  London,  273  ;  life  at  Bath,  274  ; 
equipage  and  toilet,  279 ;  gaming, 
280;  death,  281. 


Newbery,  186. 

"  Pamela/'  113. 

Parody  on  "  The  Dunciad,"  37. 

Percy,  Bishop,  185. 

"  Pompey  the  Little,"  285. 

Pope  and  Lady  Mary,  9. 

Pope,  Alexander,  childhood,  26;  liter- 
ary career,  26;  Twickenham,  26; 
"  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  27  ;  character- 
istics, 34  ;  grotto,  36 ;  Lady  Mary, 
36,  37- 

Portland,  Lady,  41. 

Prague,  20. 

Radcliffe,  Ann,  birth  and  death,  292  ; 
list  of  works,  292;  "Mysteries  of 
Udolpho,"  294;  "Children  of  the 
Abbey,"  301. 

"  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  27. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  193. 

Richardson  and  Harriet  Byron,  109. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  109;  the  grotto, 
109;  personal  characteristics,  no; 
novels,  in  ;  "  Pamela,"  113;  "Clar- 
issa," 113;  "SirCharles  Grandison," 
115  ;  life  at  Parson's  Green,  117. 

Siddons,  Mrs.,  222. 

"  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  115. 

"Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,"  79,  86. 

Smollett,  182,  193. 

Spectator,  77,  87. 

Steele,  76. 

Strawberry  Hill,  205,  213. 

Taller,  76. 

Thrale,  Mrs.,  265,  266,  269. 

"  Tom  Jones,"  149,  150. 

"  Traveller,"  195. 

"  Trivia,"  105. 

Turpin,  Dick,  244. 

Twickenham,  25,  26,  36,  205. 

Vauxhall  Gardens,  85,  211. 

"  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  197. 

Vienna,  19. 

Walpole,  Mrs.  Anne,  13. 

Walpole,  Dolly,  13. 

Walpole  and  Gray,  203. 

Walpole,  Horace,  birth  and  edu- 
cation, 204;  travels  with  Gray,  204; 
entrance  to  Parliament,  204  ;  Twick- 
enham, 205;  death,  206;  "Castle  of 
Otranto,"  207;  letters,  208;  per- 
sonal characteristics,  225. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001415287    o 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


Univ< 
Sc 
I 


